


Swallows on the Beam

by shuofthewind



Series: Sharpened Knives, Loaded Guns [武器女人] [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Court Shenanigans, Courtly Love, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Feminist Themes, Gen, Historical References, Identity Issues, M/M, Mystery, Politics, Psychological Drama, Romance, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 209,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/pseuds/shuofthewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the coronation, a plot to overthrow the Emperor has been put into motion. Disguised as a noblewoman, Lan Fan plunges into the Xingese court—and into a courtship with the emperor himself. "You are my master," she said. "There is nothing that I will not do for you." He smiled then. "So why won't you kiss me, then, Lan Fan?" </p><p>[Co-posted on FFnet. Ongoing. NEXT UPDATE: October 11, 2016. Japan time.]</p><p>[NOTE: Chap. 10 has undergone some reworking, and there have been spot edits throughout the fic.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Crossbow

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Applies for all chapters. I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters. The manga, anime, and all of its relevant pieces, belongs to Hiromu Arakawa, without whom my life would have turned out very, very different indeed.
> 
> Originally posted on FFnet. Will be posted on both sites when updated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Republic City Under Attack", from _The Legend of Korra: Season One_ OST.

  
Festivity in spring.  
After a toast of green wine,  
Once I sing.  
Once more I bow,  
With three wishes to bring.  
First I wish my lord live long.  
Second, I wish my body goes strong.  
Third, I wish we're like swallows on the beam,  
Staying together year-out, year in.  
~ "Longevity Girl," Feng Yan-yi

**Prologue: Crossbow**

_3 July 1915  
Ascension of the Dawn Emperor_

The coronation was a bodyguard's nightmare.

The stairs which led into the emperor's palace numbered two hundred ten—a queer number to choose, but one an ancient soothsayer had dubbed particularly auspicious—and even Lan Fan's legs were aching by the time they reached the landing. Precisely five steps in front of her, as was only proper, Master Ling was draped in the ascending imperial robes, crimson and gold, embroidered with dragons and firebirds. It was Chang work, she thought, or perhaps Liu. She was certain she knew which one it was, but she'd heard so many plans for this coronation over the past three months that all the details had begun to slip away from her, like weeds in a marsh.

Lan Fan took the opportunity, as the emperor started up the final steps—the only place in the world, she thought, that she couldn't follow him—to clench and unclench her automail fist. She felt bristly with all the knives strapped to her body. Under her tunic, the stump of her arm was acting up again. Rainclouds seemed to make it unhappy, and there were some particularly nasty-looking ones looming up on the horizon which promised a true downpour.

 _Wait_. She sent the thought to the sky, hoping beyond hope that some storm spirit caught it.  _Wait until the ceremony is over at least. Please. Wait that long._

There were so many people. She was only one of sixteen new bodyguards for the soon-to-be-crowned Emperor of Xing, but Master Ling had only been allowed one to accompany him up the steps to the top of the palace. She'd felt her collarbone grow hot when he'd glanced at her and inclined his head in a silent command. Despite everything they had done, despite all of the things they had been through, she had never dreamed that she would be bestowed the honor of becoming the Emperor's Shadow—because that was the only sort of bodyguard that the Elders would ever allow to come near the Imperial Shrine. Being the Shadow meant that she would be a permanent part of Master Ling's retinue, a constant presence at his side. The way she'd been all these years, only this time, it was official. It would be recognized.

 _The Emperor's Shadow_.

Lan Fan shook her head, and went back to watching the crowds. Something had been pricking at the back of her neck ever since they'd left the imperial palace, and it was making her nervous. In the three months since they'd returned to Xing she'd had this feeling exactly three times, and each of those three times, something disastrous had happened.

She slipped a knife down into her palm, and waited.

Master Ling must have sensed her disturbance, because he glanced back at her once, quickly, before he disappeared into the shrine. Lan Fan stayed one with the crowd, keeping one eye on the door to the shrine—because there was no other way in—while scanning the world around them, measuring, calculating. Would anyone be so audacious?

The crowd murmured. The imperial candidate would remain in the shrine for fifteen minutes, while he was purified, consecrated, transformed into a god. Fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds too long for that, in Lan Fan's opinion, but then again, nobody ever asked for her opinion. They lived in a world of ceremonies and consecrations, whereas in her universe, a second could be a devastation. It had only taken a second for her to lose her arm. It had only taken a second for the young lord to transform into a monster.

Time ticked by. She closed her eyes, stretched out with her senses. There was little she could feel other than that vague sense of dread; she was certain that a few of the other bodyguards sensed it too, because she could hear them looking back and forth, cautious, wondering, whispering. The nobles, too, were muttering to themselves. One of the Yao women was crying, and Lan Fan wasn't sure if it was in joy or in terror. After all, it had been a very long time since one of the Yao had been crowned emperor. Four generations. Six decades, easily.

Beads clicked, and Lan Fan let out a long slow breath. It kept slipping away from her, this  _qi_ : slimy as an eel and just as quick. For an instant, she thought she felt it right beside her, but then there was nothing. It had been masked. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the man beside her. One of the guards. He gave her a raised-eyebrow look, asking a silent question, but she shook her head and looked back to the shrine.

Seven minutes left, now, and her heart picked up the pace. He would be being marked, now, with sacred ink, a temporary tattoo painted on his back until he could get a real one put into place by the imperial artists.  _Prosperity and longevity_ , the words would read, in red and gold ink, and the artists had had decades to perfect their work; it would never fade, never discolor, enhanced with alkahestry. It would be a permanent part of him, a full acknowledgment of his right to rule. The legends said that if he wasn't worthy, his body would reject it. And there had been cases, in the past, of an emperor who had been poisoned by the ink, killed by the pain. She closed her eyes again and prayed that it wouldn't happen to her master.

There. A flicker. A shadow. She sensed the intent, sharp and caustic, a biting blade against her throat, and Lan Fan opened her eyes to stare at the crowd. No one strange. But it was  _there_ , she could feel it, up and to the right, and when she turned her head she saw the crossbow and the bolt glinting in the shadow of the temple, a small metal point sticking through an open window, an instant's warning.

The door to the Imperial Shrine opened, and in the temple, the assassin let loose. At the same instant, Lan Fan flung her blade, and leapt at the Emperor of Xing.

She hit her master like an Amestrian freight train, knocking them both to the ground. In the near distance she heard a clang of metal on metal, and the thud and gurgle of an arrow finding flesh. One of the temple masters, blood streaking down his white ceremonial robes, fell first to his knees, and then to his face, and the arrow protruded through his neck, short, thick, and barbed. Beneath her, Master Ling shifted uneasily, and she scrambled away. There was no time to be embarrassed. Around them, people were screaming. She waited until a few other bodyguards had snapped to attention, and then she took off running for the temple, taking the stairs three at a time in her rush.

 _The fourth attempt_ , she thought. The fourth blade in the night, the fourth poisoned cup, the fourth assassin in the night, the fourth arrow from nowhere. She drew a climbing wire from her pouch and let fly, waiting until she heard the snap of it locking around a tree branch before scrambling up and taking to the trees instead. It was faster, fewer crowds. She had a lock on the  _qi_ now, the oily snake, and she was right on his tail.

It took her seconds to reach the temple gate, and a breath or two more to pick out the assassin. He'd abandoned his crossbow and his head was covered, but his back was wide open as he made his way through the crowds, who had heard the screaming at the top of the rise and knew that something had gone badly wrong. Lan Fan readied another knife, and dropped down into the crowd, wishing she could be less distinctive.  _Lose the mask_ , her instincts screamed, and she pulled it off and tucked it behind a barrel, never losing sight of her prey. He looked noble; his hands were too soft for hard work, and his hair too clean for a peasant. He had the wide eyes and sweet mouth of a Chang, but the supple build of a Zhou. A rejected son, perhaps.

An opening broke in the crowd, and she didn't hesitate. She threw her second knife, and a third, and they struck true. The man screamed, and went down, blades deep in his knees, tendons severed, blood pouring down his calves and ankles. He landed on a girl, and she shrieked bloody murder, scrambling to get away. Lan Fan sped up, caught him by the shoulders, and wrenched him away from the little girl, who took off wailing.

He didn't recognize her without the mask. Not until she had the blade of her automail arm pressed against his throat.

"That's the fourth time," she said, through gritted teeth, and she wasn't supposed to interrogate prisoners herself, but for this one she would make a special exception. "The  _fourth_  time you've tried to kill my master."

"Let go of me, you filthy Yao bitch!" He spat in her face. She felt it land on her cheek, drip down her jaw. She ignored it, and pressed closer, watching blood spring up around her blade, watching his throat work. A kind of rage was pulsing through her that she hadn't felt in a long time. Behind her, she could hear the clank of the guards, their blades rattling against their hips, but she had a good thirty seconds before they arrived. She had her chance.

"Are you working alone?" she hissed, and when he grinned at her, blood streaking his teeth, she pushed down, down, down. " _Are you working alone_?"

"You have no idea," the man said, and his smile grew and grew, until it stretched across his face, a mockery. "You have  _no_ idea, you stupid, useless—"

"Tell me or I'll sit back and let the guards kill you." He would die anyway—the attempted murder of the emperor was a dying offense—but he might just be stupid enough to believe her. She saw it in his eyes, the shiftiness. The possibility.

"Liar!"

"I can keep you alive if you tell me!" That, too, was a lie. At least, it was half a one. She could keep him alive for a little while, though, and he knew it. The panic was welling up in her, breaking through in her voice. This was the fourth time she'd nearly failed, the fourth time since their return home that he'd nearly died. She couldn't afford to let it happen again. She  _wouldn't._ " _Tell me_!"

He wet his lips.

"You won't—"

She sensed it the instant before the arrow flew. Lan Fan wrenched her head aside, just in time for the crossbow bolt to plunge into her prisoner's throat. He choked, and blood burbled around his lips. She felt him die, still locked onto his  _qi_ as she was, and it was like a punch in the lower belly, like a knife twisting in her guts. He was still smiling up at her as she stood, his eyes wide and glazing.

It began to rain. Lan Fan closed her eyes, leaning her head back, and let it wash her clear of dust and blood. Under her uniform, the stump of her arm ached, and the frustration pounded through her blood like a disease. She wanted to kill something, but she'd been robbed of even that.

"Damn it," she said.

Then she turned, and waited for the guards to catch up with her.


	2. Needles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "The Eternal Vow" from _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ soundtrack.

 

**One: Needles**

_-Three years later-_

The flash of white light hurt her eyes, even behind her mask. Lan Fan blinked a few times, trying to clear away sudden spots, as Al extracted himself from under the blanket and cast the Emperor a thumbs-up. He, at least, hadn't been blinded in the past twenty seconds. "Should come out fine," he said, and patted his camera, one of the newfangled ones he'd brought with him from Amestris. "I'm getting good at developing them, if I do say so myself."

"You just did," the Emperor replied, and for the first time in weeks one of his old smiles cracked across his face. Lan Fan almost let loose a breath of relief, but she held it in at the last minute. _Unprofessional_ , she reminded herself,  _to be worried about the smiles of your charge._  Still, the border crisis had been dragging on for so long, now, with all of its twists and turns, political and military, that she'd wondered if her master had forgotten how to smile completely. The first real test of an emperor, and he'd passed with flying colors.  _A treaty in the library and a few new watchtowers along the eastern borders and all will be well._ They hoped. With this sort of thing, there were no real guarantees.

Al saw it, she was sure. He'd taken one look at the lines around her master's mouth and pressed his lips tight together, in a line of commiseration. But he hadn't commented, and for that Lan Fan almost wanted to hug him, even though her grandfather would have boxed her ears for thinking it.

She drew a breath, let it out slowly—and silently—and ran her eyes over the hall again. A sweep of the surrounding  _qi_  revealed nothing. And of course it wouldn't: The Hall of the Pearls was the Emperor's favorite chamber for private receptions, smaller, quieter, less ornate than the rest, buried too deeply in the palace for anyone but one of the court to reach it. When the Emperor was in residence, there were too many guards around the doors for anyone to get in without permission.

"It reminds me of the reception chambers on the Yao estate," he'd told her once, three years ago, a few days after the near-disastrous coronation. He'd rubbed a bruise on his ribs, one that he had refused to admit was her fault, and she'd felt the back of her neck go hot with shame at the sight. "It's…comforting."

She'd inclined her head, but said nothing, and his mouth had quirked. "You think that's unwise."

"Imperial Majesty—"

"If you keep calling me that I might get cross, Lan Fan," said her master, teasingly, and under her mask she'd blushed a bit, but moved on quickly.

"Any pattern can be tracked," she said, quietly, her voice barely audible. It was the custom of the Emperor's Shadow—of any imperial bodyguard—to be silent, to be invisible. Even speaking in front of her charge was frowned upon. Still, Ling Yao had never been one to follow tradition anyway, and he'd encouraged her to offer her opinion—to be more than a shadow—more often than she'd ever been comfortable with. She'd served him since she was old enough to kill, and she'd never been comfortable with it.

He'd taken her advice. The Hall of the Pearls was only used to receive people he trusted absolutely. She doubted Alphonse Elric knew the honor that had been bestowed on him by being allowed into this room, and she wasn't about to enlighten him. After all, they'd managed to disguise Master Ling's preference for this hall for this long. It wouldn't do to reveal it at this late date. If people knew…

There hadn't been an assassination attempt in over a year and a half. She wanted to see how long they could keep that record.

A throat cleared. Lan Fan blinked, and straightened. Alphonse had said something to her, and she hadn't heard him. There was a faint smile on his lips as he repeated himself. "And how are you, Lan Fan?"

To her surprise, Alphonse was speaking in Xingese. Mei Chang, she thought, had been rather more enterprising than she had ever expected of the little princess. His accent wasn't all that bad, either. Then the question processed fully. She sent a quick, panicked glance at her master—even though that was illogical—and then turned back to Al. Instinct and duty were warring in her, and for a second or two, she couldn't discern one from the other. Lan Fan cleared her throat, and, cautiously, replied: "This one is not worthy of your consideration, sir."

Al looked quizzical. "But we've known each other for years."

"Regardless." Still she hesitated. Lan Fan glanced at the Emperor again. There was a smile playing around his lips that she recognized. He'd worn it since he'd been a child, sticking his nose into things he should never have messed with. He'd never been good at following protocol, not with his family, not with his bodyguards, not with anyone.  _And if I don't answer_ , she realized, _he'll never let me forget it._ She cleared her throat, again, and then inclined her head ever so slightly. "But…I am well. Thank you."

With that, she bowed and retreated back to the wall. She was overdue on her perimeter check. Even if she couldn't leave the Hall of the Pearls, not as the Shadow—for she would never dream of leaving her charge—she could at least have something to do for the next twenty minutes.

After all, despite its small size, the Hall of the Pearls could be a devilishly complicated perimeter to scout.

They were talking over tea when she returned, a jasmine brew that sent enough perfume into the air around to make her want to sneeze. Both their voices had gone incredibly soft, and they were speaking in Amestrian again. Not many of the court nobles had ever deigned to learn Amestrian—the only reason the Emperor knew it was because of his imperial tutelage, and because of his insistence, as a child, on studying all the languages he could. He'd even studied old Ishvalan, for a while, before his mother had convinced him to devote his time to more political pursuits. Still, it meant that not many people would be able to eavesdrop on this conversation, and in spite of herself, she felt her ears prick up in curiosity.

"—nobles are getting testy. That's what Mei says, anyway." Al took a sip of tea, and then turned the cup lightly in its saucer. The porcelain had been painted with plum blossoms, and they bloomed wild on the smooth ceramic. "I've been too caught up in alkahestry lately, it seems. There are rumblings in the Feng family that she doesn't like. She said something about the border dispute, too." He kept his voice light, but the look in his eyes was anything but. "I understand if this is an awkward question, but…is there anything that you want to tell me, Li—majesty?"

The silence seemed to stretch, a thread woven too thin. Then it snapped. "No," said the Emperor, and his voice was a whip-crack. All the good humor he'd had moments ago had vanished. He was the politician again, and he leaned forward, and propped his chin in one hand, the ultimate danger signal. "Politics isn't your world, and never was. Besides, this isn't Amestris. This kingdom—this empire—is mine. And in it, I fight my own battles. Remember that."

There was enough bite to the words for Al to jump. His eyes—those curious golden eyes that he and his brother shared—narrowed, just a bit. "Politics has nothing to do with friendship."

"One would have to agree with you there."

They both stayed quiet for a moment. Then Al scowled, and leaned back, pointing directly at the Emperor. She was fairly sure, if she'd been a decent sort of bodyguard, she would have had to cut off his hand. But the Emperor was smiling now, so she did nothing. Besides, even if it was stupid—he was, after all, an Amestrian—she trusted Alphonse Elric.

Then, of course, he went and opened his mouth.

"You can be a—" He struggled for words. "—a right bastard, you know that?"

That, she took umbrage to. Lan Fan fingered the knife at her waist, but before she could do anything, Master Ling threw his head back and began to laugh, his eyes creasing gleefully. "Why, Alphonse Elric, I don't think I've ever heard you swear."

"I swear when the situation demands it, and you,  _Your Imperial Majesty_ , can be a…well. A jerk. When you want to be." Still, Al grinned back, ruefully. "I get the picture. I'll stay out of it. Whatever it is. Officially, anyway. And I won't tell Ed, either, because he'd roar down here, and you  _know_ he would. But in return—"

"If the situation requires it," Master Ling replied, and if he had been any other man, they would have shaken on it. But he was the Emperor, and touch was now something he could not afford to offer. So he inclined his head, instead. "You have my word."

"Deal," Alphonse said, and nodded as though something momentous had just been achieved. Judging by the fact that he was an Elric, it probably had. Then he stood, stretching his arms high over his head. "Thank you for receiving me, majesty, but if you don't mind, I ought to get back to the hostel before it gets too late."

The Emperor stood as well, and inclined his head. "You are more than welcome to return whenever your alkahestry master gives you leave."

"As rare as that is." Al sighed, put his hands together, and bowed. He took his camera with him as he went. Lan Fan remained in the shadows behind the throne as the Emperor pulled a cord, and a few maids cleared away the teacups and the pot. It was only once they were gone, and the Hall was silent again, that he glanced back at her, and a smile crinkled his eyes.

"Well?"

She pursed her lips. Thankfully, that was hidden behind her mask. "Your Imperial Majesty bestows too much weight on this one's opinion."

"You say that every time I ask you something and that doesn't keep me from asking." He dropped down into the throne, and let out a breath, a long  _whoosh_  of air that she was the only one to ever hear. For some reason, that made her want to smile. She held it back. "Do I have to bring up the sewer trip, Lady Bodyguard, or must we argue about this all night before I pry your opinion out of you?"

The Emperor lifted one eyebrow, still half smiling, and she wanted to growl. "You ask for this one's humble opinion on what matter, majesty?"

"Whatever you choose to share, Lan Fan," he returned, flippant. She couldn't look him in the face—that was forbidden—but she could look at the ground and glance at him out of the corner of her eye, and that was what she did.

"This one—"

"Lan Fan." His voice clenched. "You don't have to do that."

He said that every time. But it felt so strange not to.  _You are the bodyguard,_  her grandfather whispered in her ear.  _You are the servant. You live to protect and serve the young master. That is your duty above all. Never forget that._ Under her mask, Lan Fan wet her lips. "This—I am…unsure as to where these questions tend, master."

"I trust your instincts and rely on your judgment. I'm sure you know that." He propped his chin in one hand, leaning on the arm of the throne as though it were a barstool. "I wouldn't keep you with me otherwise."

 _You rely on me wrongly, master_ , she thought, but she kept it to herself as he continued. "I keep on having to say this, but still. If you have anything to say, say it. Let it traipse off the tongue. In fact, sing it, if you so desire. I don't think I've ever heard you sing."

 _That_ made her color, right enough. Lan Fan forced herself  _not_ to clear her throat. It was becoming a nervous habit, and she wasn't about to give her embarrassment away that easily. So instead, she went over everything she'd overheard—and everything she'd seen—and condensed it. "Alphonse is worried."

Master Ling said nothing, only gestured for her to continue. So she did. "Princess Chang must have informed him about the actions of the Feng in the latest border dispute, and he is reacting accordingly. The Elrics defend and protect those that they care about." Warming to the subject, despite the hoarseness of her voice—she hadn't said anything for two days, before being questioned by Alphonse, and her words were coming out rough—she continued. "But they are always dangerous to involve."

"Al less so than Ed. But still, I agree. It's why I rejected his offer. Despite obvious reasons." Master Ling rubbed at his jaw, lightly. "Disregarding the Elrics, there is little evidence of the Feng funding the conflict with the Qarash, no matter what we suspect."  _We_ being the Emperor and a few of his more trusted aides, including Princess Chang. She didn't count herself in that royal  _we_. It wasn't her place. "There is little we can do directly to confront them, but without confronting them, the problem cannot be solved." He clicked his tongue against his teeth a few times, thoughtful. "Changing the world to match one's own design is much more complicated than one thinks, Lan Fan. Remember that."

There were ways, she thought, that the problem could be solved without confrontation. And perhaps without the Emperor's knowledge. But she would reserve those for later, blacker times, when knives in the dark would not so surprising as they would be now.

"We need to draw them out, Lan Fan," he said. "We need to find out if this was a one-time offense or if they're planning something greater. If their ambition is driving them to stupidity..." His mouth twisted. "Heavens save me from grasping, greedy nobles."

Greed. The word flickered through her mind and was gone. She wasn't sure if he noticed the way she went suddenly stiff, but she certainly saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes that was just as quickly hidden. Then Master Ling shook his head, and the court mask was pasted back on: the light smile, the blank look, the tilted head, as though he was about to ask a question. Then he stood, and tucked his hands back into his sleeves. "Shall we return? I have a party to get ready for."

With the treaty with Qarash signed, sealed, and delivered, there was finally time for things like parties again, and as much as she hated them, she had to be ready, too. She bowed. "This one follows you, as always, your majesty."

There was a long moment of silence. She rather thought his voice would be different. But all he said, in his usual light tone, was, "And what a terrible thing it would be if you didn't."

A curious thing to say. By the time she thought to look up, he'd passed her, and she couldn't see his face. So instead she fell into step behind him, staying in his shadow as they returned to the main audience chamber.

It wasn't her place to ask questions.

* * *

The Emperor's Shadow was rarely separated from her charge. In fact, the only time she did—unless she was commanded otherwise—was when the Emperor retired for the night, and that was only on the condition that the guard remain constantly tapped into the Pulse, tracking everything that happened in the Emperor's room, benevolent or malign. It made her head ache, Lan Fan thought, as she sank into the bathwater, but at least she was reasonable about it. She was always certain to change the time she left each night, made sure that when she had to leave for longer than a minute that one of the guards  _she_ trusted remained on duty, on hand, to help if necessary.

It had been a year and a half since the last assassination attempt, but her nerves still jangled every time the Emperor left her sight. Sometimes she wondered, during the times she was away, if he would be alive when she managed to come back. The thought always made the bottom of her stomach drop away, always made her blood chill into ice. There was little that could frighten her anymore, but the death of her lord really and truly petrified her, and she had no shame in admitting it. Besides, at least here she knew that there was no one who could use that fear against her.

She always bathed alone. It was a strange thing by Xing's standards, so it was something she always did on the very edge of midnight, just to make sure that no one would intrude. She left her clothes at the edge of the massive pool—because all baths in the imperial palace were massive, no matter where she went—and she dove underwater, holding her breath for as long as she could, keeping her eyes open so she could see the cloud of hair in the water and study the mosaic at the bottom, like a child would. It was a test for herself—her longest time was nearly two minutes—but it was also the best way for her to think, and she had a lot to think about this evening.

She submerged herself up to the nose, and stared at the wall. The Qarash border crisis had roared out of nowhere, sudden tension simmering out of what had been a stout, lucrative peace between the mountain tribes and the Empire of Master Ling's father. At first, it had been unclear if they had simply retreated out of cautiousness. After all, in Xingese politics, supporting a new emperor was always a risk, especially one who had not yet taken the Fifty Wives, not yet fathered a son as was the custom. But hanging back had turned into outright hostility.

Qarash had been testy. A raiding party had hit one of the Xingese patrols at dawn on the anniversary of the Emperor's ascension, and Lan Fan couldn't help but wonder, now, if that day—which the auguries had deemed so auspicious—was actually cursed. Considering the crossbow bolt, she wouldn't have been surprised.

No Xing man had been killed. Every soldier had held his own, and returned to report, otherwise war would have been instant and inescapable. As it was, they'd traipsed so close to the edge that Lan Fan had felt the crevasse under her feet. The Qarash government had sworn that the band had been a group of rebels, outside of the priest-king's control, something that could have happened to any patrol, not just Xing's, but what the priest-king said and what Xing's spies told the Emperor were two totally different things.  _Encroaching on our territory_ , one report read, while another whispered about Xingese men, women, children being captured, enslaved. There was no way to confirm it, especially considering how the nomadic tribes on Xing's eastern steppes seemed to spend all their time hiding from the empire, but the reports had been disturbing enough to nettle the nobles, and there had been quite a few nights when both Master Ling and Lan Fan had gone without sleep, the Emperor pouring over documents and consulting with his advisors, Lan Fan waiting against the wall, listening, observing, doing her sweeps.

Discovering the involvement of the Feng—or the possible involvement of the Feng—had been completely by chance. Riders in the dead of night spotted leaving the Qarash capital; a contact with Feng connections, captured on site. They would have interrogated him, if he hadn't bitten off his own tongue and died from the blood loss. Lan Fan sank deeper under the water, and untangled her hair with her fleshy hand. She'd been trained that committing suicide that way was a painful last resort. Poison pills, she thought, or a quick knife, those would be much easier ways to die. Still, she could imagine the sort of loyalty that would have led to it, and the fact that the Feng could inspire such loyalty in their lackeys made her uneasy.

The fact that they'd made four spies—four well-trained, loyal, and long-serving spies of the Yao family, men she'd known and trusted—vanish in less than four months made her downright nervous.

And now, with the Qarash problem finally resolved, the Feng had vanished back into the woodwork. The only evidence they had was an eyewitness account, a dead body with no insignia and no tongue besides, and four anonymous missing men, and that would be impossible to work with.

She washed her hair again, stepped out of the tub, and pressed her face into the towel for a moment. Then she combed her hair out, wiping away the excess water, dressed herself, and went to return to her duties.

Each emperor chose a different set of rooms as his preferred apartments. Master Ling had settled in the Peony Pavilion, and as such, security had been strengthened around those rooms. Lan Fan had been set in a smaller room, not so much larger than anything she could have expected in an inn down in the city, but that she didn't mind; it was close enough to the Emperor's chambers for her to keep an eye on things if need be, and far enough away to keep people from whispering about the proximity of the female Shadow. There wasn't much of that, anymore, but the first six months of her master's reign had been full of mutterings. Then she'd killed her fifth assassin, and people had stopped whispering. For the most part, anyway. There were still times when she felt heavy eyes on her back, and whispers came after her in the dark.  _Clanless, crippled Lan Fan, the Emperor's alleyway whore._

She checked in with Gen Chang, one of the few bodyguards who ever deigned to practice with her, and ran a quick sweep of the  _qi_ in the surrounding pavilion before leaving her master in his care. The night air felt fresh on her face, and she swept over the pavilion, checking the nooks and crannies and even the rooftop hiding places before she felt comfortable enough retreat to her own room and pull the door shut behind her.

The Emperor was still awake, and pacing. She could sense it, as well as hear it—the walls in the palace weren't that thick, especially not with her hearing—and it made her fists clench. Then she scowled at herself, and hung her mask on the peg she'd driven into the wall. If he needed her, she reasoned, then he would summon her, and she didn't have to worry about him. But the feeling lingered, a bad taste in her mouth as she untied her hair, an itchy feeling in her skin as she pulled on her nightclothes, oiled her arm, blew out the candle. If the Emperor was worried, then there was a reason for him to be worried. But she wouldn't have thought the Feng would be this much of a concern.

Perhaps there was more she didn't know. That thought made her belly churn.

She fell asleep to the feel of Master Ling pacing, the ripples in the Dragon's Pulse reverberating their way into uneasy, half-remembered dreams.

* * *

The next night was the full moon viewing party. It was a tradition, for Xingese kings, to throw a particularly extravagant moon viewing to commemorate the month of their ascension, but that was a few months off yet; tonight was simple and clean, not cluttered with too many scraping nobles or too many unknown faces. Still, they always put her teeth on edge, these parties. Since they were held in the gardens, there were too many places for someone to hide. Small, soft lanterns hung at random through the trees, leaving shadowy nooks for assassins to lurk in. She felt jumpy, as twitchy as that damn pet of Princess Chang's, and she didn't like it. She'd keyed into the pulse five or six times in the past hour, and still she was convinced there was something she'd missed.

Something was distracting her from her duties, though, and for once, she was willing to let it. Lan Fan stood five steps behind her master, arms hanging loose by her sides, staring very hard at the back of Master Ling's head. She was convinced, now that they had gone through the day, that there  _was_ something about the Qarash conflict and the Feng conundrum that she didn't know about, and that it was worrying him. There were lines around his mouth that she didn't recognize. She couldn't imagine how he'd managed to get anything past her, and that aggravated her—though admittedly her bath  _had_ been particularly long last night—but it was more the fact that he was concerned, and frustrated, and she couldn't do anything to help.

 _It's not your place to help_ , said a voice in the back of her mind, one that sounded unsettlingly like her grandfather.  _You are the guard. Defend and protect. That is your purpose._

 _I know_ , she thought back at him, but sometimes it was wretched hard to just think about defending and protecting when the party was quiet, her master was irritable, and there was nothing for her to do but stand around and wait.

Her professional paranoia kicked in again. Lan Fan glanced at her master, and then sank deep into the flow of the Pulse for a breathless moment, trying to find anything unusual. There was nothing.  _Too many nerves on you, girl_ , she scolded herself, and snapped out of it. One of the young noblewomen—a girl from the Liu family, she thought—was reciting a poem to the moon, and she, along with the rest of the court, put her hands politely together once or twice before the noble girl swept a deep bow and shuffled backwards into the crowd again, never lifting her eyes from the floor. For all of her smugness, Lan Fan thought, the poem had been absolutely wretched.

"Well, that was…interesting," the Emperor said in Amestrian, and in spite of herself, Lan Fan bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. There was no one but her to hear him, considering he was concealed behind the thin silk screen he viewed all court functions through. She doubted anyone else had noticed he'd even spoken.

Then she stiffened. There was a new signature riding the pulse, a trio of unknowns. Obvious, not cloaked, which eased her suspicions somewhat, but still. She knew all the palace servants, at least vaguely, by the feel of their  _qi_ , and this group was unfamiliar. A set of strangers. She ran her eyes over the porches, where the nobles huddled in groups of three or four, chatting, laughing, watching the moon. The girl who had just performed was hard at work on another poem, counting syllables on her fingers. They were at the gate into the Moon Garden, she thought, and when she looked that way, she spotted them: nobles, all three of them, dressed in hues of dark green. Feng colors, she realized, and her mouth went a little dry. There was no announcer, not for a party of this size; they filtered into the crowd on their own, staying close to each other, a woman and two men who looked similar enough to be triplets.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Emperor clench his fingers together. He tapped out a pattern on the arm of his chair. It didn't mean anything, it wasn't any sort of secret code, but it told her more than if he'd turned and started shouting at her in the middle of the party.  _He invited them_ , she realized, and she clenched her automail hand into a tight fist. And it could be terribly, terribly tight.  _He wants to see what they'll do._

Well, he had said something about drawing them out.

The Fengs were known for being notoriously reclusive, so there was no question as to why she hadn't recognized them, by pulse or face. The same age, all of them, twenty-two or twenty-three. And they didn't just look like triplets, she realized, they  _were_ triplets. There was no difference in their faces, in their hands, in their builds. The only thing that stood out in their looks was that the woman had a shocking streak of white in her long dark hair, and wore it to her advantage. Their _qi_ signatures, though...those were as disparate as their faces were similar. The woman was rushing like a river, all echoing emeralds, the crinkle of tissue paper. The men...one was sandstone rough, all gold and chocolate; the other was the froth of champagne, hot as molten glass, cumin laying heavy on her tongue. _Triplets, warped mirrors of each other._ She'd never heard of any mother being able to bear triplets and surviving.

 _A hardy lot, then_.

Of course they were. And they'd been trained, too; she could see it in the steadiness of their movements, the casual way they kept their backs only to each other, leaving themselves open to no one else. All of the Fifty Families who could afford it made sure that their imperial children could defend themselves, and there was no question that these three were of heaven's blood. She could see it in their eyes, and in the tightness around their lips. Children of the old Emperor, and possible heirs to the imperial seat if anything happened to her master before he could sire a child of his own.

 _And that sort of motive can drive a desperate man to incredible lengths_ , she thought,  _especially when the prize is so worth the grabbing_.

She kept watching them, all the way up to the edge of the porch where Master Ling sat behind his silk screen. Then the woman stepped out from between her two brothers, and knelt, pressing her forehead to the stone of the garden path. Her brothers copied her, slower, but just as graceful.

"Life and health to your eminence." She had a husky voice that would do terrible, terrible things to some of the young men around the court. Lan Fan wished them luck with her. There was something cold in this woman's voice that she didn't like. "Regretfully, we come in the place of my honored uncle, who was unfortunately unable to attend this evening. He hopes that the three of us will be adequate replacements for him for the gathering of the Families, a month hence."

Lan Fan darted a glance at her master. She could only see the back of his head, the sleeve of his robe, his fingers on the arm of his chair. They were still drumming away. "Rise," he said, and his voice was cheerful enough, at least. "All three of you. Like all of the royal cousins, you are welcome in the house of the Emperor."

The woman did not react. One of her brothers, though, scowled a bit. Perhaps he'd thought Ling Yao would have gone enough against tradition to have called them siblings. Clearly, he didn't know much about the Emperor at all.

Ling straightened behind his curtain, and gestured at the nearest maid, who came obediently forward and drew the silk back. The entirety of the court was most determinedly Not Looking at them, except for the amateur poetess, who was still counting syllables on her fingers. For the first time, the triplets seemed to notice Lan Fan, who had stepped forward with her master; the woman gave her a considering glance, and then put her aside for later. "This one's name is Lien Hua, imperial eminence. My brothers are Xinzhe and Dong Mao. We await your every command."

Master Ling inclined his head. "It is my belief," he said, "that my honored grandfather was advised most creditably by a scion of the Feng clan?"

"That is correct, imperial highness." Not the woman this time, which surprised Lan Fan. One of the men—Xinzhe Feng, she thought, the one that bubbled like champagne—flicked his eyes up and then to the side, staring determinedly at one of the imperial scribes, who was sedately transcribing one of the poems that had been performed earlier. "Our grandfather, Zhong Feng. A most humble man."

Humble, her backside. Lan Fan had heard stories about Zhong Feng's extravagance. But Lien Hua Feng only smiled politely. Lan Fan rather thought she could punch this woman in the face and the noble lady wouldn't have lost that smooth, polished smirk.

"Ah." He tapped a tattoo on the arm of his chair, and then tucked both hands into his sleeves. All cards hidden now. "You must have traveled far, and it would be the utmost rudeness to send you back to your holdings in the same night, especially considering your intention to participate in the Gathering. Rooms will be prepared for you off of the Sprout Garden." Not close enough to the Emperor to be a midnight threat, but not far enough away to be an outright insult. "Enjoy yourselves. The moon is lovely tonight."

The dismissal was clear. The Feng triplets bowed again, this time at the waist, and then they joined one of the poetry groups, mostly populated by Zhangs and Chous. Master Ling continued to chat with those who came to offer him greetings, his voice light and upbeat, his tone cheerful and cheeky, but there was a sort of tenseness in his shoulders that she didn't like, and he was sure to keep his arms in his sleeves for the rest of the party.

It was only once the moon had risen too high for any of the nobles to find it that people began to retire. Lan Fan had to trot to keep up with him as he swept off, down the nearest hallway. She could feel Lien Hua's eyes piercing their backs as the paper door was drawn slowly shut behind them.

Master Ling didn't stop walking until they were all the way back in the Emperor's quarters, and once they were there, he didn't stop moving. He pulled a cord, commanded the servant who came to the door to fetch Commander Yao to the Hall of the Pearls, and then sat down and began to write. Lan Fan stayed by the door, leaning back against the cherry wood of the Emperor's inner sanctum, and kept her mouth shut. There were times when one could speak without invitation, but this was most certainly not one of them.

"I've heard of the Feng triplets," Master Ling said, once the silence had stretched on long enough that she had started to catch the sound of the lamp, buzzing like a fly caught in a cup. "They were kept rather out of the way by their family, and it was only once my father began to fall ill that they came out of seclusion at the Feng estate to come and compete for the throne." He sat back in his chair, looked at the note—she couldn't read it from here—and then nodded to himself, sealing it with red wax. "I've never met them before. The brothers are the sixth and seventh sons, respectively. The sister is the ninth daughter. Their mother nearly died bearing them. I remember someone telling me they had to slit her belly open to be sure that all four would be saved." He left the letter on the desk. "They remained in Xing during the race for the throne. All I've heard of them are reports, but the fact that they've replaced their uncle in Feng dealings with the court…"

He didn't finish the sentence. The concern in his face was plain enough. It could be nothing, and she knew it could be nothing, but her instincts were screaming at her that it wasn't, and she'd learned to pay attention to her instincts a very long time ago.

"Do you think I'm mad, Lan Fan?" he asked, and there was a mocking twist to his mouth as he smiled. "Because I might be."

"I think you are being cautious, eminence," Lan Fan said politely. "And there is no harm in that."

Master Ling grunted, and settled back in his chair to read more reports until the servant returned to inform them that Commander Shan Yao was waiting in the Hall of the Pearls.

Shan Yao was Master Ling's cousin on his mother's side. She remembered him as a stripling boy six or seven years older than her master, the sort of cousin that would dump you in the mud and laugh, then turn around and punch another boy in the face if he dared to try the same. He'd been brilliant at war games, too. It'd been no surprise when the previous emperor had appointed him Commander of the Imperial Guard, and nobody had blinked an eye when he'd retained the position once Master Ling had ascended. Now he was married to a woman he'd met in his last tour of the empire, one of the women of the nomadic tribes; news had recently leaked that they were expecting their first child.

But Shan Yao wasn't the only one waiting in the Hall of the Pearls. She was sure that Master Ling felt the pulse the same way she did, the familiar burst of  _qi_ that just about screamed alkahestry, peonies and steel; she fought back a bit of a scowl. She should have expected this, considering Alphonse Elric was back in the capital city, but she'd let it slip. Princess Mei Chang had returned to the Imperial Palace.

There were no greetings. There was no need for them. Master Ling waved his hand, lifting the commander and Princess Chang from their bows. "Would you ward the room?"

"Already done, eminence," said Princess Chang, and when Lan Fan glanced at the nearest corner, she saw the knife stuck into the floor. It was only then that she felt the curious buzzing of alkahestry against her skin, a ward against eavesdroppers, nosy parkers, and spies. The princess had improved since she'd last visited the capital city.

Master Ling looked impressed. Then his eyebrows snapped together, and he went straight to the point. "The Fengs have sent their triplets. I need to know why."

"Other than the obvious?" Commander Yao wasn't known for subtlety. He wrinkled his nose. "I wondered why the whole place was buzzing tonight. The triplets are here?"

"For the Gathering," said Princess Chang, in her high, clear voice, "yes. I heard from one of the maids that they intend to stay at the palace for the next month. At least, that's what they told the servants who came to their rooms earlier this evening."

Lan Fan looked up. She knew that Master Ling had given them permission for the night, but to stay for the whole month…well, it had been implied, she supposed, but to act on it was rather presumptuous. Master Ling frowned at that. "Did they bring anyone with them?"

"According to my sources, only a handful of servants." For someone who had just returned, Princess Chang was wretchedly well-informed. Lan Fan wondered how many of the palace servants were on her payroll, how many little notes she received in her post each day. The idea was both infuriating and astonishing, and grudging respect bubbled in her belly. She looked away.

"Forgive me, eminence, but despite the bad taste it leaves in my mouth, they really could be here just for the Gathering," said Commander Yao. "There's no reason to suspect them."

"There's no reason to trust them, either," returned Princess Chang, and Yao scowled a bit.

"Just because the Changs and the Fengs have a long-standing feud—"

"My suspicions have more to do with four missing informants," snapped Princess Chang, "not a fight between my grandfather and that wretched Zhong Feng."

"That's what you say, but I can't help remembering—"

"Both of you, stop it," interrupted Master Ling, with a look that said  _if you don't shut up I'm going to slam your heads together_. Lan Fan wished he would ask her to do it. "The past is over and done with. The future is what we have to consider now. Yes, it could be nothing, Commander, but it also could be something, and that means it could become a real problem, instead of just an annoyance."

Princess Chang nodded, and in her lap, Xiao Mei began to snore. She stroked the little beast, thoughtfully, and glanced at Lan Fan before she asked, "What is it you suggest, your eminence?"

"A spy," replied her master, and the words sent a prickle up Lan Fan's spine.  _Another life to sacrifice._ "Someone we can trust. Someone we know will not betray us. Someone who is relatively unknown." He bit down on a thumbnail, and across from him, Princess Chang frowned. "We have tried lesser means, spies of a lesser caliber, and they have always been found out. They have always vanished. There is a need," he said, "for openness as well as secrecy. If the spy is too out in the open—"

"They can't disappear without comment," Commander Yao finished, and though the Emperor gave him a sharp look, he nodded in assent.

"But not someone who is openly affiliated with you, your majesty," Yao suggested, quietly, "or they will catch on right away. An unknown, unlike the last few men."

That sent everyone into silence. Princess Chang wrinkled her nose. "If I weren't already known as an alkahestrist, I would do it."

"No, you wouldn't," said Commander Yao. "You're too important to the court. You're an imperial cousin."

"And thus a cousin of the Fengs," she said, tartly. "They'd hesitate about killing me."

"So you think, but if they're here for the throne, they'd snap your neck faster than they would mine."

Princess Chang recoiled, stung. "I could do it!"

Commander Yao looked irritable. The Emperor interrupted. "Thank you, lady, but I think a less obvious choice would be useful in this situation." Princess Chang sat back on her heels, still scowling a bit, but she stroked her pet and retreated into thought again. Finally, Commander Yao cleared his throat.

"One of the maids? We've been training a few."

"The last man we sent posed as a footman. We lost contact with him in three days."

 _Just chop all their heads off and be done with it_ , Lan Fan thought sourly. The thought of sending another spy in to be killed by the Feng was making her stomach roll.

"A noble, then," said the princess, and set Xiao Mei to the side. The little creature yawned, uncurled, and began to scout around the room, finding interesting smells. "Or a soldier. Someone who might be relatively unexpected. Unnoticed."

"You're mad if you think a noble will take a job like that, even one of the Yaos." The commander sniffed. "A guard, maybe, but then again, a guard hanging around in noble parties might be noticed, and you can bet the Feng will do their business in plain sight. It's their style, unfortunately."

Master Ling had been very quiet, she thought, and glanced at the Emperor. He'd settled in his chair, steepling his fingers, staring blankly at the wall. His brain was buzzing, she was sure. Then his eyes snapped to her, and she looked away, but not before he said her name.

"Lan Fan."

She came forward, bowed at the waist. But no command came. Master Ling was very, very quiet. Then Princess Chang made a noise of comprehension, and the Commander laughed. "You conniving little brat," he said, and Lan Fan bristled, but Master Ling said nothing. "She's perfect. Put her in a gown and even with that arm of hers they might mistake her for a lady. Heaven knows she's been hanging around you long enough to know how the court works."

Lan Fan thought she hadn't heard right. Then she pulled back, taking a step away, smacking into one of the pillars of the Hall of the Pearls. "No," she said, and it was the first time she'd spoken without permission in over three years. She stared at Princess Chang, at Commander Yao. She couldn't look at the Emperor. "You can't be serious."

"There is no one else," said the Commander. The jokester was gone. His voice was fierce and unyielding. "We need someone  _now_ , Lan Fan, in case the Emperor is in danger. You know that as well as I do."

"But—"

"We need to find out if they're planning something, and we don't have the time to train someone else. We don't have the capacity to do it without the risk of the Feng sniffing it out, and even now it's a risk. If they clocked your  _qi_ signature earlier, you'll be sniffed out in minutes, and there's no one else we can trust to be able to defend themselves in this sort of situation."

"I—"

"Besides," he continued, ignoring her, "I think you'd do a damn good job. Don't you agree, your eminence?" he added, without glancing at the Emperor. Master Ling had his fingers laced together, thoughtfully.

"Yes," he said, but there was an edge to his voice that Lan Fan had never heard before. Ever. Not in all the years she'd known him. "More than you know."

"But your eminence—" and here she broke away from Princess Chang and the Commander, went on her knees before her master, placed her forehead to the floor. "I don't know how to be a spy. I am a guard, your eminence, nothing more than a bodyguard, I don't know how to  _be_ anything else—"

"I'll teach you," Princess Chang said, "with the emperor's permission, of course—" but Lan Fan wasn't listening. She would do anything to serve her master,  _anything_ , but this she knew she would fail and she didn't want him to suffer the consequences.

"I can't be a spy, your eminence. I would rather take my own life than fail you or dishonor you in any way, and if I must be a spy, then I may as well offer my head to you on a plate—"

"Do you mistrust yourself that badly, Lan Fan?" said Master Ling, and now he sounded almost sad. She bit her tongue rather than respond, and pressed herself closer to the floor.

She'd overstepped. Her blood felt sluggish in her veins. She'd overstepped so far she was worth nothing more than dirt, and she wasn't sure they knew that. She wasn't sure they cared.  _Besides, wasn't this what you wanted?_  a voice sniped at her from the back of her mind.  _To be able to help?_  But spy work…she'd once said she'd rather die than be a spy. It wasn't that much different now.

"Forgive this one, your eminence," she said, and her voice was wooden again. "This one has stepped out of place. Do with this one as you wish. This one is your instrument, majesty, and always shall be."

"Get up, Lan Fan, please," he said, and she heard a rustle of cloth too close to her to be normal, to be regular, to be proper. He didn't touch her, but when she looked up, he was crouching beside her. His face was blank in the way that said he was angry, and trying not to show it. She flinched. He noticed, and his lips tightened. His hands disappeared up into his sleeves.

"If you feel you can't do it, we will find someone else. But there is no one I trust," he said, looking right at her, and despite how it was destroying every tradition she knew, Lan Fan couldn't bring herself to look away, "more than you, Lan Fan. And if you would take this assignment, then who knows what we will be able to accomplish?"

She looked at him. Then she remembered herself, and looked away. Her hands clenched, metal and flesh against the wooden floor. Her automail arm felt very heavy all of a sudden, despite the fact that it had never weighed her down before, not even in her first days of rehabilitation. She licked her lips, and then licked them again. How could she say no to something like that?  _Your master commands, Lan Fan. Obey._ "If your eminence commands."

But the emperor had one more thing to say.

"You have never failed me, Lan Fan," he told her, and then he stood up, and looked down at her with a half-smile on his lips. "And I do not believe you will do so now."

So much faith in her. Where did it come from? Lan Fan bit her lip and looked away. The Emperor didn't notice. "Princess Chang, I leave her in your care. We will have to come up with a sufficient cover story. Commander, that will be your department. A doppelganger will be chosen to fulfill Lan Fan's position of Emperor's Shadow, during times she will be unavailable. I will choose that one personally." He rubbed his hands together, and looked off into the garden. "There is much to be done and only a few precious days to do it."


	3. Smoke Bomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Jia Ren Qu," from _The House of Flying Daggers_ soundtrack.

**Two: Smoke Bomb**

"Right, let's go over it again." Princess Chang tapped her lips with her pen, thoughtfully, and then make a mark on her paper. "What's your name?"

"Feiyan Ma." She said it dully. She'd memorized all of this an hour ago, and she wanted to go outside. Check on the Emperor. Anything. But the princess would know if she tapped into the Pulse, and then she'd have to deal with the infamous Chang temper, something she would rather not have to handle at the moment. She fingered the handle of one of her blades.

"Where are you from?"

"The Ma-guo steppes." Princess Chang gave her a look. Lan Fan altered her accent, squishing her vowels, changing her tones. She'd spent a year with her grandfather trying to train the steppes out of her voice, and now she was going right back to it.  _Sorry, Grandfather._ "The steppes."

"Who are you again?"

"The cousin of Commander Yao through his wife."

"Why are you here?"

"To help her when the baby comes. I was brought here by her request."

"What is the name of your father?"

"Zaixin."

"Brothers?"

"None."

"Sisters?"

"One. Yue. Two years old."

"Mother?"

"Dead."

"Your cousin's name?"

"Suyin."

"What about the Emperor's great-grandfather?"

"Ra—" She bit her tongue. "I don't know."

Princess Chang scowled, and then sighed. "Better than before. You need to stop being so automatic in some of your responses. And remember: you don't know anything about the Emperor's family. You only know that he's just come to the throne, nothing else. You don't get much news out in the steppes, after all."

Lan Fan nodded, and refused to look at the maid that had just come into the room. She was one of Mei Chang's students as well as her personal servant, so Lan Fan was fairly sure that they could trust her, but at the same time, she was on high alert. Every unexpected movement made her want to stab something. It was only after the maid had laid out a new dress on the bed and left that the princess began to speak again.

"You've never had to learn court etiquette, though your presence here for the past three years will have butchered that somewhat. You'll have to be sure to make silly mistakes. Make people laugh at you. That will draw attention to you, but not the negative sort." She scratched something out in her notebook. "The leaders in your tribe are chosen by vote, not heritage. You have no particular standing yourself, even though your father leads the Ma. Because of your relationship with the commander's wife, you will be introduced as Lady, but no higher than that. You have no particular title. You have been trained, like all the steppe women, in self-defense. How did you lose your arm again?"

"In a fight when I was fourteen." She settled a mask of cool disdain on her face, refusing to think about the sewer in Amestris, the knife in her hand, metal through tendons and muscle and bone. "With another tribe."

"Much better. You didn't react at all this time." She rather wanted to cram the nearest cake into Princess Chang's face. Since it was an uncharitable and unfair thought, she suppressed it. "You'll be spending a lot of time with Commander Yao and his wife when you aren't invited to court events, so be prepared for that. You will make your reports during these periods."

"Understood."

"You sound like an automaton." Princess Chang tapped her beneath the chin with her closed fan. "You'll be fine. Breathe."

"I don't know how to  _breathe_  the noble way," Lan Fan snapped back, and then bit her tongue. She hadn't lost her cool like that in years, not since the struggle with the monster in her master's skin, everything that had happened in Amestris.  _No, wait_ , she corrected herself.  _I lost my temper during the attempt at the coronation._ Though, granted, that had been justified.

Princess Chang paused, looked at her for a moment, and then smiled.

"There. That's the sort of spirit we need for this assignment. You have to attract enough attention that the Fengs will be interested in you. The Ma rarely come to court—none of the nomadic tribes ever do—so you'll be a novelty at first, but after that it's up to you. You have to attract their attention, Lan Fan, and hold it."

Her mouth felt dry. She ducked her head and stared at her toes as Princess Chang went to the bed, studying the court dress that had been laid out. It was dark blue with gold stitching; embroidered horses raced along the sleeves and seams. It looked too soft for anyone to touch, let alone wear, without it crumbling into pieces. The undergown was of soft cream silk. She was afraid to go near it. She felt like a stain in this room of silk and finery, in her dark bodyguard uniform stiff with sweat from her exercises and bristling with knives. She was out of her depth here, and always had been, but her master had commanded, and damn everything, but she would obey.

Princess Chang didn't notice her consternation, or if she did, she was refusing to acknowledge it. "You'll be announced at dinner tonight. You'll also be assigned a maid—your cover allows you that. She will be one of my people, an alkahestrist. She will keep your rooms as closely as you wish them to be kept, though at some point it may be advisable to let…intruders investigate certain objects. Keep that in mind."

Her belly rolled. She shouldn't have eaten so soon after her workout. Lan Fan nodded. "Yes, princess."

"Remember, after you leave my rooms, we don't know each other. We probably won't like each other." Princess Chang smiled a bit. "Not that that will be very difficult for either of us to pretend, don't you think? We had an easy time of it back in Amestris."

In spite of herself, Lan Fan felt a smile quirk at her mouth. "You tried to stab me."

" _You_  tried to stab  _me_ ," Princess Chang countered, and then flicked open her fan. "If I were you, I'd go wash off. You look a bit grubby at the moment, Lady Ma. Your new maid will meet you at the Jasmine Bathhouse in an hour to help you dress."

Lan Fan's humor vanished. She bowed sharply at the waist, and then left through the window. It wouldn't do for anyone to see her wandering around in Princess Chang's rooms, even if her face was hidden behind a mask.

They had found an excellent doppelganger for her, she thought, to take her place behind the Emperor. A man with an automail arm had been scrounged up from the army. When she'd stood masked next to him before the Emperor, even he hadn't been able to tell the difference between them. She had never been particularly well endowed in the chest, either, so it was more than simple for the man to pretend to be her without having to pad his tunic too much. She would have to offer a prayer of thanks to the spirits that she always wore long sleeves and gloves during her work as the Emperor's Shadow—the fact that she was crippled wouldn't prick the Fengs suspicions overmuch that way.

 _I'll have to tell the commander to make sure the doppelganger wears gloves_ , she thought, and her throat closed up a bit. Which was ridiculous. She took to the rooftops, pushed her mask up off her face, and rubbed her eyes, which were stinging suspiciously. Then Lan Fan took a deep breath and crossed the palace roofs to the Jasmine Bathhouse, which she would be using from now on.

Nobody was there at this time in the afternoon except one or two of the attendants. When she took off her bodyguard's jacket, knives, mask and entered as herself, no one recognized her, either. They gave her a towel, led her to a private room, and left her there, and Lan Fan took a very long time undressing herself, throwing her clothes into the basket that meant they should be burned. She felt naked without her knives, hidden as they were behind one of the roof beams of the Peony Pavilion. She didn't think the emperor would mind overly much if she left them there for a while. After all, she'd kept her most wicked blade close to her, in its sheathe on her thigh. She would have to cut a hole in one of her pockets to make sure she would be able to reach it at all times.

She left the bathhouse forty minutes later, stinking of perfume and with her legs and underarms smarting as though they'd been dipped in acid. The latest fashion for court ladies was for their bodies to be completely hairless from the collar down; Lan Fan had managed to dissuade the overenthusiastic tweezing maid from one or two places, but the rest had already been victimized by that point, and she was wondering now if she would ever be able to feel anything in those places again. She had never been particularly hairy, nor had she ever really cared about that sort of thing, but the way the maid's eyebrows had gone up at the sight of Lan Fan's legs had made dull color rush to her face. They'd reshaped her eyebrows, too, and, to her horror, liberally doused her in scented oil before leading her to one of the changing rooms. It was empty; even with her lengthy bath, she was early, and she ended up crawling into the window-seat, drawing her legs up against her chest, and wondering why on earth she'd ever agreed to do this.

 _Because he asked_ , the annoying voice in her head replied, and she couldn't deny that. Lan Fan scowled at the window. It was so strange to see her face reflected in the glass, rather than her mask. She had never had a mirror in her own room, simply because she didn't like them. It was a jolt, to see her eyes.

Spying. Scheming. She wasn't good at it. She probably never would be. Still, she'd heard and obeyed, the way she'd been taught to, and she refused to regret that. Lan Fan put her face between her aching knees and breathed, slow and deep, settling her  _qi._ She'd been lectured by Commander Yao about keeping her signature under wraps, just in case one of the Feng triplets  _had_ done a spiritual sweep on her that evening in the garden. She doubted it—she certainly hadn't felt anything—but it was wiser to be safe than sorry, so she hid herself. Not entirely—that would be even more suspicious—but masking her signature just enough to become uninteresting, invisible, inconsequential.

She'd never liked masking her  _qi._ It was like trying to block up a hole in a dam; every time she caught one tendril and stuffed it back into herself, another sprouted, seeking a link to the Dragon's Pulse. The  _qi_ of all creatures was woven into the Pulse itself, so that made sense enough, but it was damned irritating when she was trying to be at least semi-covert.

She had fewer opportunities to do that than she would like.

"My lady?"

Lan Fan looked around, and nearly scrambled out of her window-seat to plaster herself to the floor before she realized this court lady, drenched in gold and silk, was talking to her. She was tall and willowy, with long fingers and very pale skin—exactly the sort of person, Lan Fan thought, that would have been in the Queens' Wing in the time of the previous emperor. Thirty-something, but she looked much younger. Not only that, but this woman—this _noble_ woman—was terribly exotic: she had long, curly hair that was redder than anything Lan Fan had ever seen, and even though her face was Xingese, her eyes were a strange mix of green and brown. Her _qi_ signature felt like mossy stone, sharp as cracked black pepper.

 _Half-blood,_ Lan Fan thought, and her mind spun _._

The noblewoman saw her staring, and her eyes crinkled at the edges. Even though she'd seen all sorts of eyes during their journey to Amestris—brown and green and blue and even gold—they were still making Lan Fan highly uncomfortable. She had to fight her instinct to look away. It would be a sign of weakness, and terribly rude besides.

Eventually, the woman's mouth quirked, and she lowered her gaze. She bowed at the waist. "Pardon this one's intrusion, Lady Ma. This one's name is Niu Lu. This one has been sent to serve you for the duration of your stay in the Emperor's Palace."

Her Xingese was flawless. Lan Fan wondered if she'd been born here. She cleared her throat, and said, "Nice to meet you. Um. You may rise," she added hastily. It looked as though Niu Lu would go all day with her face parallel to the floor if Lan Fan didn't say something.

The maid glanced up at her through her curtain of curious hair, and Lan Fan thought she might have caught a tolerant smile on Niu Lu's lips. If she was one of Princess Chang's people, then she was sure to know that Lan Fan was not all she appeared to be. _And vice versa_ , Lan Fan realized, studying the woman the Emperor had chosen to be her servant. She moved too deliberately to not have some sort of training outside of alkahestry.

"Thank you, my lady." She flicked open a fan, and hid the lower half of her face. The fan was made of delicate forest-green silk, embroidered with cranes; the pale silver rim matched the hem of her robes, and the seam of her underrobe, all laced with a soft creamy grey. She looked horrifically elegant and far, far out of Lan Fan's league. Or capacity to understand. "If you don't mind, now would be an excellent time to take some measurements. The clothes you brought with you are lovely, and will certainly cause a stir at court—it's been a very long time since any of the nomadic fashions have been brought to the capitol, and it is certain that people will be excited to see them—but there are other events that will require clothes that accede more to imperial traditions. Until this one has your measurements, they cannot be made."

"Oh." Lan Fan felt her hands go cold. "You don't have to—"

The fan snapped shut. "This one is your maid," Niu Lu said, and somehow it was an unshakable command. Lan Fan meekly surrendered. She wasn't good at dealing with females that had clothing on their minds.

Niu Lu whipped out a silk cord, measured Lan Fan's arms, legs, wrists, neck, shoulders, bust, and ribcage, and then wrote everything down in a small notebook she had hidden in her sash before pronouncing herself satisfied. Then she put her hands together, bowed a bit, and said, "If you would follow this one, my lady, this one will escort you to your new rooms."

She was still in her bathrobe. Her wet hair clung to the back of her neck. Lan Fan hesitated, and clasped the collar of her robe. Niu Lu's eyes crinkled. "If my lady desires, this one can take you through a secret path to your new rooms. No one important will see."

"Yes," Lan Fan said, before her instincts pricked up.  _Secret path?_ Why had she not been informed of secret passages in the palace? "That would be nice. Thank you," she added, and Niu Lu shook her head.

"Do not thank this one, lady."

It wasn't a secret passage, as it turned out. It was the servant's path. Lan Fan had used these corridors before, but not in the middle of the day, and to have everyone step out of her way and bow as she passed was the strangest feeling in the world. She kept her eyes on the ground and her robes clasped together, following the bounce of Niu Lu's curious hair through the crowd of people, up the stairs, and into the guest wing, where visiting nobles lived while visiting the palace. She could sense the Fengs a few corridors away, and she crushed her  _qi_ down under her feet. If they recognized her as the Emperor's bodyguard, everything would be ruined.

"This one, my lady," said Niu Lu, and pushed open the door.

Not room. Rooms. Three of them, Lan Fan realized, her eyes sweeping the perimeter. One door to the Lotus Garden— _the Lotus Garden!_  a voice in the back of her mind trilled, shaky with panic—one door to what she assumed was a bedroom, and another to a smaller room that looked like a study. There was a small desk, and an ink painting of Mt. Buwei hanging from the wall. They were small rooms by noble standards—at least, she thought they were—but they would have housed twelve people back at home, or more, and they felt enormously extravagant.

She spotted a battered-looking trunk halfway tucked behind the sandalwood changing screen, and relaxed, just slightly. At least now she knew where she could hide her knives again. Then her forehead creased, because not even Princess Chang had said anything about clothes.

 _If I've traveled all the way from the steppes, though, I would have brought things with me_.

She considered that for a moment, and then wondered how she'd traveled from the steppes. Her heart seized up in her throat. She couldn't remember any of her story. She'd just been going over it, less than an hour ago; how could she not remember anything? She clenched her human hand into a fist—

"Do they meet with your liking, my lady?" Niu Lu asked, and snapped the fan open again. The sudden crack made Lan Fan jump, and come back to herself.  _I came by carriage_ , she thought, _but I also brought a horse with me. I will go riding in the morning, and act generally overwhelmed._ Well, that would be simple enough.

 _I am a nomad again,_  Lan Fan thought hard at herself _. Act like it._

"It's…big." She kept her voice neutral. Niu Lu's eyes crinkled, and Lan Fan was sure the maid was smiling behind her fan.

"This one is pleased to hear you say so, lady." She bowed again. "This one has been told by Commander Yao's footman that there is going to be a small event later this evening, in order to commemorate your arrival here. The Emperor, health to his gracious majesty, will not be in attendance, but several other members of the court were invited. But first," she said, and a glint leapt into her eye, "my lady will be presented to the emperor. How shall this one dress you, Lady Ma?"

"Ah…" Lan Fan looked back at the trunk. "I don't need—"

Another  _snap_ of the fan. She looked at Niu Lu. Niu Lu kept her eyes averted, her voice smooth and sweet, but there was something about her that said,  _Do not cross me, youngling._ "If my lady does not wish to choose, this one has several ideas."

Niu Lu was waiting for an argument. Lan Fan wasn't up to one. So she didn't. Instead she shrugged, put a hand on her hip, and said, carelessly, "Whatever you think is best. I don't know much about court things."

This was clearly what Niu Lu wanted to hear, because she pounced on the trunk like a cat on a string, and dug through it. Lan Fan could only glimpse a few colors from this angle—orange, purple, crimson, green—before Niu Lu extracted what looked like a tent made of red and black cloth. She pulled out a sash, too, embroidered with gold, and flung that over the top of the changing screen. "This," she said, and looked at Lan Fan again. "Yes, I think so."

A  _deel_. She hadn't seen one in years. It shook her right down to the core, and the persona she'd been working on dropped away for an instant. Lan Fan put out a hand to touch it, and then retracted it just as quickly. If Niu Lu noticed, she didn't say anything. She could see the  _gutul_ , too, waiting by the door. _Fourteen years,_ she thought, and her toes clenched. Fourteen years since she'd been found, since the Huo had adopted her. Fourteen years since the raid. She hadn't been back to the steppes, hadn't worn a  _deel_ or  _gutul_ or thought about the northwest in fourteen years. She hadn't thought about them. Hadn't wanted to. And now…

 _Snap out of it, idiot. Work._ She pulled her shield back over herself, settled her emotions.  _Breathe. Nomads are proud and independent above all. Don't forget that._ "I'll do it myself," Lan Fan said, and held out her hand for the  _deel._

Niu Lu studied her for a moment. Then, bowing meekly, she handed over the deel, and Lan Fan vanished behind the folding screen to change her clothes.

_Game on._

* * *

He was bored.

Ling drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. He had always known that the duties of an emperor could, on occasion, be boring, time-consuming, and generally dreadful, but there were some days when that hit him more than usual. Usually he could tune out the Minister of the Left when the man kept harping on about the Fifty Families and the Emperor's duty to sire children—which, to be honest, Ling himself wasn't about to deny—but other days it just rankled.

"—rgive my insensitivity, imperial highness, but the people continue to worry. History has shown us that an empire without an heir can be easily thrown into civil war—"

 _Hush, idiot_ , Ling thought mildly, and glanced at the Feng triplets, who were gathered at the near end of the hall, talking quietly amongst themselves.  _You'll give them ideas._

"—marriages should be completed as soon as possible for the well-being of the empire—"

He was still talking. Ling tilted his head just slightly, really looking at the man for the first time in months. Shen Liu was a pudgy man in his early fifties; jewels ringed his pudgy fingers, and with every gesticulation, his belly seemed to do a jig. He sweated a great deal, as well, and as Ling watched, the man pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, dabbed at his bald forehead, and then lowered his eyes to the floor again. "—own personal belief that this matter of Qarash would be utterly solved if His Majesty—"

 _That's it._  Ling stood, and tucked his hands into his sleeves.  _I won't have this man trying to amend my international policies with a marriage proposal._ "I believe I have made myself perfectly clear on this matter a number of times, Minister," said Ling, and he let a bit of ice creep into his voice. "The Hall of Justice is not a place to be bantering about ideal wives. If you have a request or recommendations to make, please go through the appropriate channels."

Liu flushed a dull pink. "Majesty—"

"Hear this, ministers." A few other people perked up their heads. "It is not my intention to take a wife—or a concubine, for that matter—until the matter of our borders is completely settled. There is no point," he said, caustically, "in worrying about weddings when tensions are still so high on our western borders. Do you understand, Minister?"

The Minister of the Left bit his tongue, and bowed deeply at the waist. The man's ears had turned as red as curls of meat.  _I'll pay for that later_ , Ling thought grouchily, and sat down in his chair again. Shen Liu was not the sort of man to be humiliated in public and let it slide afterwards. Still, it had been worth it, he thought, to at least get the man to shut up for once. "Now," he said, and turned to the Minister of the Right. "What is the next matter to be attended to?"

"I believe—"

The side door opened. Red hair flashed in the gap. Niu Lu, one of Mei Chang's ladies, came forward, and whispered something to the announcer at the front of the room. Ling sat up just a bit, and propped his chin in one hand, hiding a smile.  _Ah. Showtime._

"Majesty." One of the new maids—Ling couldn't remember her name—came forward, put her head to the floor, and spoke directly to the wood. "A visitor from the steppes. She begs to be made known to your imperial highness as a new member of the court."

"What are her connections?" he asked, and he didn't have to pretend to sound intrigued. The steppes? An interesting choice for a backstory. Not one he would have chosen, but still. It fit well enough. If Lan Fan could pull it off—when Lan Fan pulled it off, he corrected,  _when_ —it would certainly be eye-catching enough.

"Commander Yao has especially recommended her for service, majesty, as she is cousin to his wife." The maid kept her head very low, but he could hear the disdain in her voice. Capital born and bred, from her accent. The steppes people were lower than merchants in their eyes. "Shall this one escort her in, majesty?"

Ling opened his mouth to reply, but he was too late. There was a burst of voices from beyond the hall, a crash as the doors slammed open, and a rush of whispers around the room as an unfamiliar figure came forward, standing straight as an arrow. Lan Fan walked to the center of the Hall, hands loose by her sides, a knife kept openly on her hip; more than that, she stayed standing, and she looked him right in the eye for the first time in over three years, as though she was daring him to disagree with her.

It was really the most curious sight. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her out of her uniform, and now it was as though a stranger was standing in front of him. She wore a robe-like dress of bright crimson, tied tight together with a thick black belt; long sleeves dangled forward over her hands. There was a fur-lined hat crammed onto her head, and high boots with long, curling toes on her feet. The boots were patterned with embroidery, and made of soft leather. She stood stiff and cold, staring at him, and he had to fight back a smile. If he knew her at all, the stiffness was coming from her own insecurity, not the arrogance she was trying to portray. He doubted anyone else would realize that, however.

 _Well, there's a sight._  Lan Fan in a dress was not something that could be spotted every day. Every year. Every decade, he amended, and kept his smile to himself. He wasn't sure she was enjoying it too much.

Still, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.  _If I hadn't known her so long_ , he thought,  _I would never have recognized her._

She stared at him for so long, he rather thought she was going to get herself executed. There was only so far one could go, after all. Then she swept herself down into a nomadic bow, down on one knee, pressing her metal fist to her chest, and lowering her head. "My name is Feiyan Ma, strength and health to your majesty. I long to serve you in whatever way possible for as long as your majesty wishes."

Whispers burst out around the room.  _Insolent,_ he heard, and _bumpkin_. "She has bold eyes," one woman whispered, and hid her disdain behind her fan. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the Feng brothers frowning; whether it was in confusion or consideration, he wasn't sure. Lien Hua Feng was nowhere to be seen. Lan Fan—no, if he was to pull this off, he was going to have to think of her as someone else entirely. Feiyan Ma was remaining absolutely still. She looked almost exotic, dressed in such a bright red; the black sash matched her eyes.

He waited for some sort of response from the back of his head, and then realized that one wasn't coming. Three years and the habit still hadn't gone away. He was hopeless as a sane man. As a human, not a homunculus.  _Nice woman, there_ , Greed would have said.  _I want her._  And with the first half, at the very least, Ling wouldn't have been able to disagree.

She was prettier, he thought, when she was all in black and had dirt on her nose. But this, he could definitely get used to.

"You are insolent," he said, and the room hushed to silence. "Feiyan Ma of the steppes."

He saw her shoulders stiffen. She kept her head low, but not quite low enough. "I am afraid I know little of court politics, majesty. I come as I am, to aid my cousin and to serve you for as long as you would have me."

"You've come a long way for such a simple task."

She glanced up at him, and their eyes met. "The simplest tasks are often the ones most worth doing."

He didn't have to fake his smile. "Why do you present yourself in such a way? It is the custom—"

"In my tribe," she said, and there was an edge of a warning in her voice, "each man or woman speaks directly and for themselves. Forgive me for my ignorance, but the ways of imperials elude me." She rolled back to her feet, in a smooth, catlike motion that made him wonder how often she'd been practicing it before coming into the Hall. Then she bowed at the waist. "Excuse me, majesty, but I must go and meet with my cousin. I hope you will forgive my rudeness."

She turned to leave. The Minister of the Left finally found his voice again. "You insolent little bitch! Inbred little outsider! Have you any idea—"

Feiyan Ma stopped, and stared at the Minister for a handful of heartbeats. Ling couldn't see her expression, but whatever was there, it shut the Minister up right enough. "I apologize for offending your sensibilities, sir. But where I come from, people rarely have masters. Speaking directly to one's betters is the utmost form of respect. If I am to serve the emperor, as I have been told I will be, I see no point in bowing and scraping like a worm before the god I am supposed to respect and cherish more than my own life."

Shen Liu swallowed hard. His adam's apple bobbed like a fish. He kept his mouth shut. Feiyan Ma bowed deeply to him, and then walked out of the hall, shutting the door very carefully behind her. Only once the click of the latch sounded out did everyone turn to stare at their own feet. He saw eyes darting his way, and then just as quickly towards the floor again.

Ling stayed still for a long moment, playing up the tension for as long as he could. Then he snorted. "Interesting."

The Minister of the Left sputtered. "M-Majesty?"

"Grant her rooms at court," said Ling, and he stood, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "I am curious as to the state of things for the steppes people."

Shen Liu began to speak. Ling stared at him for a moment, and then turned to the Minister of the Right, Bao Zhang. "As for the rest of the requests, I will handle them later. Shadow, with me."

The doppelganger bowed at the waist, and then padded silently after him down the hall as Ling left the throne, crossed the hall, and took the opposite door, wondering just what sort of piece he'd put into play with Feiyan Ma.

Interesting, indeed.


	4. Bayonet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Scarf Dance" from _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ soundtrack.  
>  "Korra Confronts Tarrlok" from _The Legend of Korra: Season One _soundtrack.__
> 
> Warning: Sexual innuendoes and the toss-around of the word "whore." It may trigger some people.

**Three: Bayonet**

She wasn't hiding.

There was an implication, she thought, to the word "hiding" that connoted shame, humiliation, cowardice. She was not frightened, nor was she ashamed, and Lan Fan was certainly no coward. Everything she had done until now proved that. Everything she had done since she'd returned to Xing had proven that.  _This,_ she thought, frowning at the deel that tangled in her legs and the shoes that clicked as they walked, proved that much.

So no. She was not  _hiding_. Nor was she skulking, cowering, cringing, or indulging in a silly moment of useless, girlish terror. She was merely observing the enemy from a concealed position, which was the best possible spot for a spy, and there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Lan Fan settled deeper into the shadows behind the potted Qarashi plant that had been a gift from an ambassador decades ago—the plant would have long since died if it hadn't been for the palace alkahestrists—and picked at her fingernails with the short knife she had insisted on keeping on her belt. Her longer assassin's knife was still strapped to her thigh, a hole cut into the pocket of her deel so she could grab it when she needed it, but the little knife was perfect for Feiyan Ma—weathered iron and a handle made of cracked but polished deer antler. There was a small iron cap on the end of the handle, which could be spun aside to reveal a bead of cyanide, should she need it. She scraped at the dirt under her thumbnail—she'd forgotten how dusty horses could be—and kept her eyes on the crowd.

It was the Empress Dowager's birthday. The Yao crest had been painted on the broad Hailing Wall of the Hall of the Golden Lotus, in vibrant hues of gold and crimson—imperial colors. Before it sat the Emperor and his mother, and when Lan Fan peeped up through her elaborate hairstyle—Niu Lu's idea, not hers—at the imperial seats, she felt something inside her clench, hard and painful. This was the first time in the two weeks since she'd revealed herself as Feiyan Ma, steppes warrior, that she had seen her master, and the fact that he was whole and hearty was not helping her settle, like she had expected. If anything, it was just making her feel worse. Guilt strangled her guts. Lan Fan forced herself to look away.  _There is no point in this_ , she told herself. _You are not the only one who can protect him. There are many others, probably many far more capable than you._

She dug her knife so deep under the nail that she drew blood. Lan Fan stuck her finger in her mouth and turned back to the crowd again. Someone—and she had a very good idea of whom, considering the look of pleasure on Shen Liu's face—had hired Zhao acrobats. It was only natural, considering that Huian Yao had been a Zhao, once upon a time. They flickered and tumbled through a wide space that had been cleared for them in the Hall; guests clung to the walls like dust. Some watched. Most whispered. She could see the Princess Chang standing apart, glimmering like a child at the sight of the acrobats; sometimes it was hard to remember that she was still only sixteen.  _She acts like an old woman_ , Lan Fan thought, and then scoffed at herself. Anyone who had had the running of a clan as large and as poorly as the Changs thrust upon them at the age of thirteen would certainly act like an old woman, especially one who had been as bubbly and naïve as Mei Chang had been when they'd all tumbled about Amestris.

She did not wonder why her master did not act the same way. After all, he had actually  _wanted_  the crown, and the power that came with it. She strongly suspected, after the limited contact she had had with Mei Chang over the years, that all the seventeenth princess had ever sought was a way to rescue her family.

Alphonse Elric was not present. She could only thank the stars for that. Lan Fan pulled her still-bleeding finger from her mouth, inspected it, and then wondered if Niu Lu would kill her if she managed to get blood on her deel. Since the answer was a vibrant and violent  _probably_ , she continued to suck the blood away, and kept watching. There was something pricking at her about Mei Chang that bothered her, and it was only once she saw Princess Chang turn and accept a flute of something sparkling from a servant that she realized it; Princess Chang was in Amestrian clothes. Well, not quite Amestrian, she thought; she could see the mark of Xing all over it, from the elaborate buttons to the delicate silk. It clung to her skin, sleeveless and with a high collar; it was Chang pink, and a slit up the side stretched almost to her thighs. It was, Lan Fan thought, the most daring dress she had seen on anyone, even in Amestris; she had had no time for fashion in that wretched country. At any rate, it was the most modern ensemble in the Hall of the Golden Lotus, and probably the most audacious.

Except, she realized, for Feiyan Ma, who had not yet stopped wearing deel in favor of court fashions. The difference was Mei Chang was getting compliments or avoidance, with nothing in between; Feiyan Ma was getting everything from being openly mocked to having filthy notes shoved under her door in the night. _Inbred horse-wife_ was the tamest thing she'd been called so far. Shen Liu had made his mark.

Lan Fan pressed her lips tight together, and wondered: if she had actually been Feiyan Ma, would she have dared stay beyond two days?

The Feng triplets were here. When she caught Dong Mao looking at her, Lan Fan's heart skipped a beat. She sheathed her knife, and put a hand in her pocket to check that her real blade was still strapped to her thigh. They hadn't approached her, hadn't dared—after all, she was the latest court toy, the lowest of the low, not someone to care overly much about. Her daring entrance had kept her in the forefront of everyone's mind, however, even now; she still had people lowering their eyes and speeding past her, as though she was going to attack them. The Lady Suyin, the commander's wife, had a plan to get her into the Fengs' good graces, but for now, Lan Fan had her own strategies.

The acrobats finished. Nobles clapped politely. Lan Fan stowed her knife back into its sheath and emerged from behind her potted plant. Suyin was on her in an instant.

Suyin was, Lan Fan thought, altogether too beautiful to be human. The only thing that made her a woman, instead of some trickster fox spirit, was a strong nose and a small gap between her two front teeth. How a woman like this—a woman who seemed to be made of cream and ebony silk, her _qi_ all soaring moonlight to the commander's stones and damp earth—had come out of the weather-beaten, hard-brow steppes tribes was completely beyond Lan Fan.

And then she'd gone riding with the woman, and had fallen so far behind that she'd actually felt ashamed. Lan Fan was a good rider, but Suyin and her horse were the same being. The stallion—for it was a stallion, not a gelding or a pretty gilted mare like the court preferred ladies to ride—seemed to obey her every thought. It was a magnificent black, compared to the dun mare that they had found for Lan Fan; Suyin had raised him from a colt. Commander Yao had tried to keep them from going out on Suyin's dawn rides—his wife was, after all, pregnant—but Suyin had given him such a mighty and implacable look that he had backed down. "All women in our tribe do as I do," said Suyin. "We ride until we can no longer mount a horse. Is that not true, Feiyan?"

Lan Fan had nodded, unsure of what else to do. She remembered so little of the steppes that she couldn't have possibly contradicted Suyin, even if she had wanted to. To be absolutely frank, she hadn't really wanted to. Getting out of the court had always been a deeply cherished desire, and to have a ready excuse for it—well, she wasn't about to let that pass up, no matter how disloyal it made her feel.

But there was something in her, she had thought, as she and Suyin had crested a hill above the capitol, and she had looked down on the walls of the Imperial Household, that begged for open land and for sunlight and for wind in her hair. That was what had kept her sane while they'd been in Amestris, she was certain. New land and new places to scout out, to explore. It was the one thing expected of her, in her cover as a steppes woman, that she did not have to pretend to, and she embraced it.

Of course, Suyin had a court side to her too, and it was  _that_ Suyin that was barreling towards her now. Pretty, plush, and painted, Suyin had her long black hair done up in an elaborate design that was probably murdering her scalp, and her gown was only  _so_ traditional; instead of a long skirt, it separated below the waist into two loose trouser legs, which were cinched in tight around her ankles. Her silk jacket, light and thin, was covered in the oak leaves of the Yao.

" _There_ you are," she said, and her smile was all wolf: teeth, but no pleasure. "I've been looking for you, dear cousin; how easily you go astray."

"The crowd is overwhelming me," said Lan Fan, struggling to put herself back in the steppes accent she so desperately needed. Two weeks into the game and she was better at putting on the mask of Feiyan Ma—though she was still not as good as she wanted, and  _Lan Fan_ still beat at her core—but the accent was giving her so much trouble. It drove her crazy. "I needed a moment to myself."

"Of course it would." Suyin held out her arm, and Lan Fan settled her palm in the crook of the woman's elbow. It was the same thing any cousin would have done, the same thing any  _sister_ would have done, but it still felt terribly fake. "After so many years out on the steppes I suppose a place like this would be terribly crowded and noisy to you, wouldn't it?"

Lan Fan nodded, and then let Feiyan Ma have free reign. "It stinks," Lan Fan said, and several of the ladies who had followed Suyin—Lus all, with their pretty little mouths—sniffed and tugged oh-so-subtly at their clothes, lifting their fingers to smell. Suyin threw her head back and laughed, and for a moment Lan Fan hated her. Even her  _laughter_  was pretty. When Lan Fan laughed (and that was rare enough she couldn't remember the last time she'd done it) she had the most unappealing sort of manly chuckle that ended with her lungs creaking. Suyin sounded like tinkling temple bells.

"It's the incense that burns here, cousin. It's new, of course, but you'll get used to it. I did. It does wear on the senses at first, though." Suyin smothered a giggle and tugged Lan Fan into one of the corners of the room, her train of Lus following like ducklings. "I'm so glad you've come here, cousin," she added, and her voice, too, dipped back into the northwestern accents, shifting dialects, subtly ousting the Lus from this suddenly private conversation. "There are some people who would like to meet you."

Lan Fan did not smile, but the corner of her mouth did turn up a little bit. "I suppose I shall like these people as much as I like anyone here, cousin."

Suyin's smile was still razor sharp. "Of course."

Frankly, Lan Fan was surprised anyone even  _wanted_ to be introduced to Feiyan Ma, after the debacle that had been her court introduction. It had been the only thing she'd been able to think of, at the time, and it hadn't had a  _negative_  effect, per se; it had just made things slightly more difficult than she'd anticipated. Suyin's Lu girls had been the only ones who had come near her since the incident, and even then they circled her like moons around a particularly smelly planet. They still gave her funny looks when they thought Suyin wasn't looking. Like now, Lan Fan thought, as one of the girls—she couldn't keep their names straight—turned to her fellow and whispered something that sounded distinctly like " _stupid half-horse bitch_ " into her friend's ear. Lan Fan did not react. Letting on that her hearing was that good was pointless, and besides, she'd been called worse.

"Lead the way," said Lan Fan, and Suyin patted the back of her hand, digging in with her long crimson nails. Then she scooted around the performance circle—there were fire dancers now, with hot flowers blossoming out their mouths—and led the way towards the opposite side of the room to the Feng triplets.

Lan Fan had been at court for too long not to recognize the people Suyin found for her, even if she didn't know them by name. There was the Master of the Horse, who nodded to them every morning when they struck out at dawn for the hills beyond the city—Jian Zhang, a cousin of the Minister of the Right. He was gruff and unassuming, and Lan Fan decided to like him. She did not decide to trust him. Then there was one of Suyin's court friends, Biyu, a fluffy and charitable younger daughter of one of the branches of the Chang. Mei Chang's seventh cousin once removed, Lan Fan's mind supplied, as she and Suyin chatted about flowers and the upcoming candlelight festival. She had to be at least twice Mei Chang's age and double her girth, but there was something of the seventeenth princess in her manner all the same. At the buffet table, once Lan Fan had been (re)introduced to Mingli Chen, a shy, pockfaced noble boy who stammered when he spoke.

"My lord Chen has only been at court for a few weeks, cousin," said Suyin, ignoring the clear terror on his face; it was obvious that talking not to just one, but  _two_ heathen horsewomen of the steppes was a bit too much for the boy. "He is a phenomenal hand at research. Perhaps you can discuss some of the older and more—esoteric—" her nose wrinkled "traditions of the court with my cousin, my lord? My husband cannot teach us both."

To Lan Fan's surprise, Mingli Chen agreed. He had a bit more steel in his spine than she'd figured, when he'd been introduced to court a month ago. Then, she'd still been the Shadow, and she'd been able to see his knees quaking from five steps behind the Lotus Throne.

It was just when they'd begun circling around towards the Fengs that a veritable kerfuffle of young cocky lordlings sidled up to them. Suyin's hand tightened on Lan Fan's. "My lord Xie," she said, and Lan Fan's ears pricked up. Xie was not a common name at court. It was one of the oldest clans in the Fifty Families, and they could rival the Fengs for their tendency to keep to themselves. She couldn't remember ever seeing this man before. He was quite handsome, she thought, in a distant sort of way, but there was a tilt to his mouth that she did not like. "What can we do for you?"

"My lady Yao," said Xie, and he bent at the waist. It was more shallow than courtesy demanded, but it was a bow nonetheless. He did not, however, offer one to Lan Fan. "I heard tell that your cousin had come from the steppes to attend to you, but nobody mentioned to me that she would be quite so pretty."

"My cousin does not enjoy flattery, but I thank you for the compliment on her behalf," said Suyin. Her nails were digging deep into Lan Fan's wrist in warning. Lan Fan stayed silent. "Is there something you wish of me, Lord Xie?"

"I have something to discuss with your husband," said Xie. "But I have not seen him yet."

"Shall I take you to him?" Suyin gave Lan Fan a look that read  _stay here_  before turning back to Xie. "he is not very far away. He's probably out on the balconies, he doesn't like the crowds."

Lan Fan was alone again, and she was being circled like a mouse. Four boys had followed Xie, and four boys remained behind as Suyin tucked her hand into the crook of Xie's arm and nearly dragged him towards the balcony doors. It was a test, she was certain, and Suyin was leaving her to face it, as she ought.

It didn't mean that her stomach wasn't wrapped up in knots.

One of the other boys tossed his hair back out of his eyes. He had long bangs to go with his alkahestrist's queue, and it was clear they bothered him. "Tell me, Lady Ma," he said, and meaning utterly dripped from his voice. "Has your Yao cousin taught you how to ride properly, yet?"

"I ride as any woman from my tribe rides," said Lan Fan in a quiet, measured voice. There was a great deal of Lan Fan in Feiyan Ma; since no one had ever spoken to Lan Fan in court, aside for Gen Chang, it had been relatively safe to continue using her real personality. If she had had to load a fake one on top of herself, she would have been crushed under the weight of it. "Astride."

"With your feet," another lad said, "one wonders why you don't walk."

Behind Lan Fan, the Lu girls—who had shamelessly remained to eavesdrop—tittered. They had had their feet bound as noble custom required; both feet would have fit into Lan Fan's spread hand. Lan Fan thought of the girls she had seen as she'd grown up in the Yao compound, toes curled in to the sole, bones broken by bandages that were wrapped tighter and tighter, nails growing deep into flesh, pus dripping from old wounds that would never heal, and bit her tongue.

"You clomp about like a man in those boots," the same boy said, and even if he hadn't been smirking, the way his friends were laughing told her that it wasn't meant to be a compliment. "Do all the women in your tribe act as you do, Lady Ma? Riding astride, legs spread like a common whore—"

"Really," said the alkahestrist, and he leaned forward to put his lips to her ear. His hand fisted in her sleeve. "Are  _horses_  the only thing you ride, Feiyan Ma?"

Lan Fan drew her knife and had the tip pressed against his ribs before he could breathe. "You will release me," she said, "or I will skewer you where you stand,  _boy_."

The knife was concealed. None around them could see it. They would just see an alkahestrist bent over a steppes girl, his mouth to her ear, as though he was telling her a secret. Only she saw the way his face had gone white; only she saw his eyes widen and felt the way his throat worked to keep himself from vomiting. "You wouldn't," he said, but there was a quiver to his voice that she couldn't quite hide. Lan Fan slipped her hand against his coat, and one of the gilt buttons clattered to the floor between her feet. She smiled Suyin's shark smile.

"Don't tempt me, flatlander."

He swallowed hard. Then he released her sleeve, and stepped back. There was a rent in his Academy jacket where her knife had been, but by the time he stepped far enough away from her to show it, she'd already slipped the antler blade back into its sheath at her side. The lads around him were confused, but when he turned very quickly and marched into the crowd, they followed him without question. Lan Fan's hands were shaking. She had never had to threaten a member of her own court before, and she didn't much like the feel of it.

"They tried the same with me, you know," came a voice, and when she turned, it took everything in her not to jump. Lien Hua Feng was closer than she'd realized, her hips braced against the wall, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She looked glorious in Feng green, and her robes were traditional, if a bit daringly cut. Her collarbones and the tops of her breasts were exposed, in a river of creamy skin that was boldly—and beautifully—decorated with vines. It was paint, Lan Fan thought, but the way it moved when she breathed made her uneasy. For the first time she checked Lien Hua Feng's hair for alkahestry braids, and found none. "The Yao boys don't much like women who won't give them what they want."

"Yao?" Lan Fan echoed, and looked to the crowd where the lordlings had disappeared. She had never met any of the Yao cousins—after all, with her master carrying imperial blood, he'd been kept away from most of the family for over a decade before finally being presented at court, and then they'd been off to Amestris. But the Yao were a large clan, she remembered, and it would have been impossible for her to meet all of them.

"The alkahestrist is Honghui," said Lien Hua, and tilted her head curiously. "The other two were Dingxiang and Peizhi. Yaos, all three of them, and drunk on their own power. They cornered me the first night I came out in public, too."

Lan Fan studied her. Lien Hua Feng was gorgeous in a way that was inherently different from Suyin. Suyin was the sun, and cresting waves, and rolling hills filled with steppes grasses, powerful and demanding the attention of everyone around. Lien Hua was the keen and glinting edge of a newly honed blade, and the eerie elegance of a lone wolf's howl—a sheer, sharp, predatory beauty that made Lan Fan's skin prickle. Her hair was down tonight, in a maiden's loose curls around her face, and the white streak was shockingly apparent. She thought there might have been a beaded mastery braid, hiding amongst all those curls, but she couldn't quite be certain.

_That's all we need. A Feng with an alkahestrical mastery._

"I should have stabbed him, then," said Lan Fan. "If he does it again, I will."

"You'll be hung," said Lien Hua dispassionately. "He's the Emperor's cousin, and you're nothing but a steppes whore. Whose side will they take?"

"I'll still stab him," said Lan Fan. "I'll just hide the body."

Lien Hua's eyes snapped to Lan Fan's, and to Lan Fan's utter astonishment, she smiled. It looked like acid. She bowed at the waist, deeper than Xie had bowed, and said, "I am Lien Hua Feng, come from the west; I offer my greetings to the Ma clan and to its scion, so far from home."

Lan Fan bowed back. "May your horses grow strong," she said, because that was what she remembered people said, at a meeting like this one. "May your family thrive and may the wind and stars brighten your path through fresh grasses until the end of your journeys, wherever they might lead."

"How charming," said Lien Hua. "Is that a tribal greeting?"

"It is the only greeting my tribe knows," said Lan Fan, and she wasn't lying. The Huo had never greeted each other. They had excelled in never greeting each other if they could help it; silent nods and stiff bows were the only concessions they had ever offered to each other. Her grandfather had been the stiffest of them all. But stiffness, she thought, had its uses, and its reasons. Their line of work demanded nothing less.

 _Grandfather, I miss you_.

"You've come a very long way just to be mocked by flatland boys." Lan Fan gave Lien Hua a sharp look, but didn't say anything; the Feng woman was still smiling, and it was making her nervous. "All the way from the Qarashi border, I hear."

"So far as I am aware my family will have moved from the borderlands. Things have been unsafe as of late."

"The news has reached the capitol as well; it's even made its way to the Feng holdings." Lien Hua's eyes searched Lan Fan's face. "You surprise me, Feiyan Ma. You have none of the barbarity that I have heard comes with the steppes peoples. A loose tongue, perhaps, but no true…" She searched for a word. " _Heathenness._ "

Lan Fan bit her tongue and steadied herself. Then she said, "What is barbaric in one tribe is mere common courtesy in another. As for my loose tongue, I keep my own counsel if need be. I simply speak as I find."

"You certainly shocked that old Minister," said Lien Hua, and to Lan Fan's shock, she offered her arm. Lan Fan took it, and tried to hide the fact that her fingers were trembling. "What was it you said?  _Honesty is respect_."

"For the Ma, it is."

"I think I like your Ma," said Lien Hua, and she led the way to a couch beside her brothers, out of earshot of the rest of the party. Lan Fan kept her eyes fixed ahead of her, and did not look towards her master. "The court is wearing on me, and I have only been here two weeks."

"For the Gathering," Lan Fan said, and nearly kicked herself for the slip. She wasn't supposed to know of the Gathering of the Fifty Families, not after so little time here. Lien Hua gave her a sharp look, but then her mouth curved up again.

"Your cousin is married into the Yao, yes?"

"Suyin is the Commander's wife," said Lan Fan. "She has been teaching me about court things."

"Court things." Lien Hua rolled it around her mouth. "Yes, I suppose my brothers and I are here for court things. The Gathering, as you have said."

"Forgive me," said Lan Fan, "but though my cousin mentioned the Gathering, she didn't tell me what it is."

"Of course she didn't. The steppes people have never been invited into the Gathering; they are too far off, and it  _is_ only for the Fifty Families." Lien Hua looked at Lan Fan again, and Lan Fan had the horrid feeling that she was being measured—her possible usefulness as a link to the Yao versus her sheer heathenness, as Lien Hua had put it, was being tested. She must have not come up wanting, because Lien Hua brushed the white streak back out of her face. "The Gathering happens once every two years. All of the Fifty Families of the Imperial Court—I trust you know what the Fifty Families are," she added, and Lan Fan made a face and nodded. "All of the Fifty Families send their representatives in a massive parliament, where political, economic, and interfamilial concerns will be raised before His Imperial Majesty—life, health, and strength to his name—for his consideration."

Lan Fan could detect no disdain or even dislike in Lien Hua's voice when she spoke of the Emperor. But then again, the woman's eyes were like mirrors; Lan Fan could see no emotion in them, just her own pasty reflection. It was very unnerving. She licked her lips. "Then since you have come for the Gathering, you are to be the Feng representatives?"

"My brothers and I have come from the west in order to replace our esteemed grandfather at the Gathering, yes." She sighed a bit. "He has been ill, as of late, and the journey would have been too taxing on his health to come all the way to the capitol city. He named my brothers in his place, and they were kind enough to allow me to come along. After all, it is the first chance I have ever had to come to court."

 _Liar_ , she thought, as Lien Hua smiled again. Lan Fan doubted that her brothers  _let_ Lien Hua Feng do anything. Besides, they were all imperial cousins. But Feiyan Ma wouldn't know that; Lien Hua Feng had not introduced herself as princess, and Suyin would not have had time to tell her. So she pursed her lips and nodded, keeping her face blank. (It was the one thing she  _was_ very good at, aside from knives.) "I see."

"You come in similar circumstances," said Lien Hua. "Your cousin is with child, I hear."

"Only a month or two. It is her first baby, and she wished for someone from home to be with her when it came."

"So I can trust you will be here for the next nine months, at least?"

"Unless I am called back to Ma-guo, or dismissed by my cousin or her husband, I will be here as long as it takes."

"I see." Lien Hua mulled that over too. Then she tilted her head, like a cat scenting blood. "I find I like you, Feiyan Ma. My brothers and I will soon be attending a horse race, just outside the Imperial Palace; a group of us will be going. No Yaos," she added, "though your cousin is welcome to come if she wishes." The commander, Lan Fan noted, was not included in the invitation. "I find that the stagnation of the imperial court wearies me, and I turn to more…well, the word would perhaps be  _plebian_ , but I find that  _rough_ suits me better. I turn to rougher pursuits. As a horsewoman yourself, I believe it might be of interest to you to join us."

Lan Fan thought about it, but inside her heart had leapt into her throat. She had imagined, in getting close to the Fengs, that she would have to worm her way into their rooms and dealings, not be outright invited, like an actual guest. Her instincts were screaming at her to decline—that acid smile was back, and it made her think of death and pain and very, very bad things—but even if Lien Hua was trying to extract information on Yao clan dealings or, at the very worst, lead her into a trap, Lan Fan could take care of herself.

She did not look at the Imperial Throne.

"I think," she said, "that that would be a godsend."

"Good," said Lien Hua Feng, and patted Lan Fan's knee through the deel. Then she stood. "I will send you a dove with the details in the morning. For now, I have to keep my brothers from drinking themselves into oblivion." She rolled her eyes towards the heavens. "Men. I shall see you soon, I think, Feiyan Ma."

"Your courtesy overwhelms me, Lien Hua Feng," said Lan Fan, and Lien Hua raised a hand in acknowledgment as she turned and headed towards the wine glasses. It was only once she was out of sight that Lan Fan closed her eyes, let out a breath, and stood to look for Suyin.

Her hands were shaking like leaves in her pockets.


	5. Whip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Blue Spirit," from the _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ soundtrack.  
>  "Agni Kai," from the _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ soundtrack. 
> 
> So it's been a while since I've posted. Apologies. Life catches up to you when you're close to graduation from uni.
> 
> Blood and violence trigger warning generally applied here. 
> 
> Just as a note; in Chinese, the letter X is pronounced as "sh", while Q is pronounced "ch" and Z is "j". So a name like "Xiaoqing" is actually pronounced "Shaoching," while "Peizhi" is "Peiji", with a light R sound at the end. Just as a reference. 
> 
> For those of you who are interested in worldbuilding, I have a page set up on my Tumblr where I add all my headcanons for Xing, both in regards to this story and in general. Please visit shu-of-the-wind.tumblr.com/sotb for more information.

**Four: Whip**

When Ling finally looked up from his paperwork, the clock read 2:24 AM, and he began to seriously consider pulling an all-nighter. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d managed it, even before he’d managed to snag the Imperial seat. As one of the heirs to the throne, not to mention being the only son of Huian Yao, he’d had so many tutors thrust at him he could have crewed his own battleship, and every single one of them seemed to think they were the only tutor in the world, and assigned homework as such. Then, when he’d been fifteen, he’d stayed up for a week straight on a dare from one of his half-brothers, one of the…Cao boys, he thought. His memories of that time were very foggy and awkward.      

He’d always had trouble managing to sleep for more than six hours straight, anyway. Ling leaned back in his chair, took his teacup in both hands, and swirled the dregs. He’d banished the servants from the room hours ago, and Lan Fan’s impersonator was lurking outside the door; he could feel the man’s prickling energy on the edges of his _qi_. He wasn’t sure if he liked his new bodyguard, but to be honest he would mislike and mistrust anyone other than Lan Fan in that position; it wasn’t the soldier’s fault. Nor was he a bad bodyguard, truth be told. He took his duty very seriously. He just wasn’t Lan Fan.

Ling put his cup down and rubbed his hands over his face. He’d taken the crown off once he’d finally managed to grab a room to himself, but his neck ached from wearing it all day, his back ached from the throne, his hands ached from signing his name so often… _you’re turning into an old man, Yao_ , he thought to himself, and pushed himself up out of his desk chair. Maybe there was something about an imperial seat that aged a man beyond his years. Though Führer Bradley had never seemed particularly over-aged.

Then again, the Führer had not been a leader, but a tyrant and a soulless monster. Ling braced his hands against a cabinet and let out a breath. It had been at least three years since he’d left Amestris, but for some reason, Bradley haunted his thoughts like a wraith, a one-eyed demon in his nightmares.

_A king is no king without his people! Without subjects, a ruler cannot exist!_

Quick words spoken by a naïve prince, but true nonetheless. Without his people he was not an emperor, or a king; he would have been nothing more than a human being. The people of Xing gave him his strength to rule, and he was never, _ever_ going to let himself forget that. He rubbed his temples with his forefingers, breathing in and out in sequences of seven. He honestly couldn’t remember a single time in the past four years when Lan Fan had not been within a moment’s reach, regardless of whether they’d been traveling back to Xing, fighting their way through the hounds at his father’s funeral, or anything that had come since. Even her rooms were only a few dozen feet from his own, surreptitious, tucked-away, but there none-the-less. He would be lying if he said her absence wasn’t bothering him in the slightest, even if he had been the one to send her away in the first place, and for a job that had to be done, to boot. Leaving the Feng to their own devices was out of the question, and asking someone less talented would have been sending them on a suicide mission. Still—it was odd. It wasn’t…nervousness, precisely, but a strange sort of unsettlement was making him fidget inside his own skin. He’d always been aware of how important Lan Fan was to him—as a friend, as a confidant, as his trusted right hand—but he hadn’t thought it would be this difficult to be away from her.

He’d been watching for her at his mother’s birthday party, kept an eye on her as he talked politics and celebration with both Huian Yao’s advisors and his own. She was making headway; whether or not it was just a Feng double-cross was something that they had yet to figure out.

His mother’s birthday had made him reconsider a few things, made him think. The incense had been burning thick in the Hall of the Golden Lotus, covering the smell of sour firedancer oil and the sweat of the court, bundled up as they had been in their heavy layered robes of silk and gold. The general styles hadn’t changed in Xing since before his father’s time; it made him restless. The rest of Xing was not trapped in this wretchedly medieval mindset of old robes and family legacies, but the nobles would stay that way forever, if they had the choice. No one, he thought wryly, could make a noble give up power if he did not wish to give it away.

In other words: the ideals of Xing would never be able to change while behind the Meridian Gate, the capitol still creaked under the weight of tradition, but his hands were tied. Tradition had made him emperor; he would have to be very careful in rewriting it. Now that the Qarashi conflict was over, he could get back to his previous business of reworking his country into an empire that would gather the respect of the world over. Torpor now would only lead to their own destruction, especially on the heels of such a calamity that had occurred in Amestris.

Homunculi. Alchemy. Blood and agony. He still woke up at night sometimes thinking he was in Amestris, clinging like a madman to his wavering control of his own body, with a voice in his head that demanded women, wine, joy, knowledge, violence, and above all, power. He still woke up at night reaching out for something that no longer existed. He put thoughts of the Philosopher’s Stone out of his mind and turned back to the pretty problem of Xing.

Mei Chang, he thought, with half a smile, had given him an idea. He made a mental note to talk to Alphonse Elric as soon as possible, as soon as they had a better idea of what was going on within the court itself.

The Feng bothered him. Ling opened the cabinet, yanked out some of the books, and turned back to his desk. Triplets. Children of the Retired Emperor, may his soul be unburdened, and thus his half-siblings. A sister and two brothers. Not an inch of them that he could trust, but then again, considering all the times he’d had a brother or sister tried to kill him over the past nineteen years, that was a fairly safe bet to make. He could count the number of siblings he actually trusted on one finger. Replacements for their uncle, who was, by all accounts, a slimy, scheming bastard, in the Fengs’ political agenda, whatever that happened to be. And they had not once mentioned Qarash, so far as he could tell.

The books were Lan Fan’s reports. Simple, clinical, to the point, and, so far, lacking in information. He expected a great deal more at the end of the week, considering her sudden, bewildering acceptance by Lien Hua Feng. Either the Fengs knew she was a plant, in which case he was certain Lan Fan could defend herself, or she had struck a chord with a trio who was generally disliked and frequently clashed with most of the pro-Yao members of the Fifty Families. Considering what he knew of Lan Fan, it wasn’t particularly difficult to imagine either possibility, though if it was the former, she was sure to know what she was walking into.

He realized he was smiling when he caught sight of his reflection in the back of his crown. Ling opened the books again. He hadn’t just grabbed Lan Fan’s reports, but all information that had been accumulated by every investigation of the Feng family; only four thin volumes, in total, each of which could have been a children’s story if not for the black seal on the front cover. Four spies dead, one still living. A man with Feng colors dead of a bitten-off tongue, riders in the night. Circumstantial at best, and it would have been dismissed after a cursory investigation if it hadn’t been for the fact that their spies just kept dying. _Shimin, Shubao, Jingde, and Meilin Yao._ Their names stood out like bloodstains on the delicate paper. And now Lan Fan Huo.

He didn’t like waiting for things. His brain stagnated. Ling rang a bell, and in less than a minute, there was a maid at his door, and his fake Shadow was at his back again.

“I want the Princess Chang and the Commander brought to the reception room within fifteen minutes,” he said, and wondered how much of a tongue-lashing he was going to get for waking the pair of them up in the middle of the night. “And I want a message hawk brought to me by dawn.”

“Understood.”

“Oh, and—” he lifted his cup. “Could one of you trouble yourselves to bring me some more tea, please?”

The maid’s lips creased up into a smile. “This one lives to serve, your highness.”

 

* * *

 

The lower city reeked of sweat and piss and old rice wine, and Lan Fan would have wrinkled her nose if she hadn’t once been carried through a sewer. As it was, she was having trouble keeping herself from being too light on her feet, especially in the shoes that she’d been forced into by Niu Lu; they were lovely and soft and perfectly fitted to her enormous feet, but with a layered sole that meant she could run in them for hours and they wouldn’t wear out. Niu Lu either had a very accurate suspicion about what she was supposed to be doing as a cousin of Suyin, or she knew a very, very good shoemaker. Either way, they were perfect, and it was hard for her not to bounce in them, hard for her not to run.

Behind her, Lien Hua pulled a veil tight over the lower half of her face. “It stinks,” she said, and gave Lan Fan a sideways look, as though measuring her reaction. “Don’t you smell it?”

“I’ve smelled worse,” Lan Fan said, and rocked onto her heels. It wasn’t just her and the Fengs, but then again, if it _had_ been just the four of them, the whole idea would have screamed _trap_. There were two Lu girls, one attached to Xinzhe Feng, the other clinging to a boy she thought might have belonged to the Cao, if he hadn’t had a Xie clan tattoo up the side of his neck. Mingli Chen was there too, his nose buried in a book, expertly navigating the messes in the street without once looking up from the Qarashi characters. He was wearing a pair of Amestrian glasses that had been absent the night of the Empress Dowager’s birthday, and hadn’t spoken a single word to any of them since they’d all met up at the Upper Xuanwu Gate. With two confused looking Xie boys, their party numbered ten; obvious, but it was safer in numbers. She wouldn’t be surprised if a few of these lordling girls had bodyguards following them at a discreet difference, just to be safe.

“Considering where you come from, Lady Ma, I’m not surprised.” She wasn’t sure if that came from a Cao or from Dong Mao Feng, but either way, she was going to ignore it. Lan Fan pulled a knife from her belt and twirled it between her fingers absently as she joined Lien Hua Feng near the head of the group. Lien Hua didn’t give the blade a second glance.

“Ignore them,” she said. “They’re uncouth sons-of-merchants.”

“How much farther until we reach the racetrack?” Lan Fan asked, flicking the knife up into the air and catching it again. If her grandfather had been there to see how reckless she was being with a blade, he would have had her hide, but the fact of the matter was it fit the profile that the Fengs had been building for her, and besides: she heard much fewer heathen jokes when she was playing with a knife.

“Only a few more blocks. Why?” Lien Hua’s perfect mouth curled up into a smile. “You nervous, little horse-daughter?”

“Are you?” asked Lan Fan, and Lien Hua’s grin grew wider.

“Not on your life. Come on. I have some bets to place.”

Lien Hua had been here before. So had her brothers. It wasn’t a question of intuition; they knew where to turn, which stalls to avoid, which buskers to pay for safety from the pickpocket crews on the streets of the Xu District. They had to have come to the Capitol before—as imperial cousins, they wouldn’t have been able to escape the pleasure—but she doubted there were many of her master’s siblings who could wander the streets of one of the poorest quarters in the city, accompanied by almost half a dozen nobles, who weren’t automatically attacked.

“You know your way,” she said to Lien Hua, who gave her a momentary glance. She’d tightened her veil over her nose and mouth, and the scarf she was wearing over the white streak in her hair was dark, embroidered with cheap silver thread. A good disguise, Lan Fan admitted grudgingly, especially for someone who had looked so at home in courtwear.

“I had a good guide, Feiyan Ma.” She lifted her head up, tilting it like a dog on the scent. “This way. You can hear the cheering from here.”

Lien Hua was right. As they turned left, heading down a particularly nasty alley (Lan Fan stopped to drop a few _ling_ into the hands of an old man with open sores), she could hear the swelling shouts and the thundering hooves of a racetrack. She hadn’t known that the city had had such things, but then again, considering the last time she’d come down into the southern quarters was when she and her master had been thirteen and exceedingly stupid, she supposed she could be forgiven.

She was pretty sure that the track had once been a field of some kind, maybe a square with a well. The well was still there, but it was covered with flags, each marked with a symbol of one of the seven districts below the Xuanwumen, the Gate of the Black Turtle. “Seven horses, then,” she said, and Mingli Chen looked up from his book for the first time to find that they were at their destination.

“Correct. There are seven districts under control of each ward, Lady Ma. That one there—” he pointed at one of the flags, green with black edging, “that’s the Niu District flag. They generally have the best horses.”

“Not this year they don’t, four-eyes,” said Xinzhe, and bumped Mingli hard in the shoulder. He nearly dropped his book. “This year Shiqu is going to win, make no mistake.”

“Shiqu might come close, but statistically, Niuqu has the stronger winning streak.” Mingli fixed his glasses, and scowled a bit at Xinzhe, who just grinned at him and sauntered away to catch up with the Lu girl. “Idiot,” Mingli added under his breath, and Lan Fan couldn’t help it; she smothered a grin, and came to stand next to Mingli Chen.

“Tell me more about the horses up this year,” she said, “if you know about them.”

Mingli pushed his glasses up his nose again, and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She could see Lien Hua Feng watching them as one of the Cao boys chattered in her ear, but no one interfered. After all, why would anyone interfere in a conversation between a girl who threw knives and a bookworm? 

“Typically, the Niuqu horse is first, and the Xuqu horse second; they have the better jockeys on their payroll, and besides, some of the merchant families around here like to act as patrons.” He checked his spot in the book he was reading—economics—and then shut it fully, tucking it into his sleeve pocket. “The other districts squabble amongst themselves for third; no definite pattern there.”

“What do they win?” she asked, curious. “Money?”

“Some, but not enough for it to really mean anything. It’s more about pride, I think. The district that wins gets to keep the winner’s flag in their district office until next year.” Mingli pointed to the well again, and for the first time she saw the eighth flag, tattered silver cloth trimmed with ragged gold, with the character for _win_ embroidered on it in clumsy black thread.

“Niuqu won last year, and the year before that, and the year before _that_ ,” Lien Hua said, appearing on Mingli’s other side to peer at the silver winner’s flag. “They’ve had it in their office for almost a decade, I think. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. They’ll fight tooth and nail to keep from parting with it.”

“Why does Xinzhe—” the name tasted funny on her tongue, but it was safer than calling him lord in the poorest district of Xinjing City “—think that Shiqu is going to win this year?”

Lien Hua bared her teeth in her cyanide smile. “Because this year, Shiqu has a Yuan-guo horse.”

“A Yuan horse? Really?” The Yuan family was famous for their horse breeding, nearly as famous as the Ma, and even Lan Fan, who wasn’t all that good with horses anyway, felt her eyes widen. Mingli looked pained, but he nodded.

“Ancestors know how they managed to get their grubby hands on one, considering how expensive they are, but that’s the word on the street.” A Qarashi woman with a water pot and a veil to put Lien Hua’s to shame passed by them, her dark eyes flicking from Lan Fan’s knife to Mingli’s glasses and back again, and in spite of herself Lan Fan turned to watch as the woman slipped back into the crowd, very carefully not looking back. The Feng hadn’t seemed to notice, but the Cao boys had; one scowled.

“Damn dirty brown bitch,” said the older Cao boy, just old enough for the woman to hear him. Lan Fan saw her shoulders stiffen, and she tightened her hand on her knife. Something in her went cold, the way it had when she’d heard Amestrians talk about the men and women from Ishval. _Red eyes, brown skin, white hair, lost country._ “She needs to get back to her country, _especially_ after the border dispute.”

“She’s not full Qarashi,” Xinzhe said, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly, and for the first time Lan Fan wondered if the Feng interfering with the Qarashi border dispute had something more behind it than simply causing trouble. “She wouldn’t be registered to live in Xuanwu if she was full-blood. Keep up with the times, Aiguo.”

The Cao boy—Aiguo—snorted, and his _qi_ clicked at her like a scorpion. “That’s even worse. Stupid half-breed half-brained whore.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Mingli stuck his nose back in his book. Dong Mao and the Lu girls laughed. Lan Fan flicked her knife from hand to hand, still unsheathed; the other Cao boy (Heng, that was his name) laughed and pointed right at her. “Watch it, the horse-bitch is going to cut you if you keep up that kind of talk.”

“Dare you to try,” said Aiguo, but there was something cold in his eyes. Lan Fan flipped her blade, spinning it over the back of her hand before catching it by the tip. Lien Hua was watching her, her mirror eyes narrowed, as if waiting for something. A reaction? Lan Fan thought, twirling the knife between her fingers and throwing it up in the air again, catching it. Aiguo was leaning against the wall, watching the flags, the corners of his lips going higher and higher the longer it took her to decide. Heng nudged him in the side, pointing at the half-Qarashi woman; she was sitting at one of the cheap jewelry stalls, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her license to sell was tattered and proud, nailed to the stall like a trophy. Xinzhe was right, she realized; there was no way a non-Xingese _anything_ would have been able to convince the Xuanwu merchants’ guild to let them have a sale license. She had to be at least half, if not three-quarters, even with her clothes and those beautiful dark eyes.

The woman was watching them, Lan Fan realized, as she tucked her knife back into her belt. When Lan Fan caught her eye, she looked away, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t keeping an eye on them. She’d seen the Caos type before, Lan Fan was sure. “We should go,” said Lan Fan. “We don’t want to miss the horse race.”

“So the horse-bitch is a coward as well as a barbarian,” said Aiguo, low enough to pretend it was a whisper, but loud enough that she would be able to hear it over the crowds. “Better watch it, Chen, or she’ll rip your lily-throat out while you’re sleeping.”

Mingli’s cheekbones went pink, but he kept his eyes firmly on his book. He hadn’t turned a page since he’d opened it, Lan Fan realized, and his shoulders were hunched; he seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible. She grit her teeth, and glanced at Lien Hua, jerking her head towards the racetrack. “We should go,” she said again. “They’re going to start soon. The horses are on their way out.”

For the first time, Lien Hua’s eyes went wide. “They haven’t—”

The jingle of bells from the south entrance shut her up. The riders had arrived. Seven, just as the flags predicted, each wearing tassels in their manes corresponding to the color of their district. There were no saddles, and only thin twine for bridles; Lan Fan winced at the thought of the horse pulling at the bit. There was no fence around the track either, just a wide line marked in the earth with chalk. The riders were slim, dirty boys, none of them older than thirteen or fourteen; one of them, leading the Xuqu black, was missing an eye. The Lu girl clinging to Heng Cao shoved past Lan Fan to get a better look, going up on her tiptoes. “What ugly horses,” she said, sounding delighted, “and what horrible little people.”

“They’re children,” Lien Hua said, and there was a thin vein of disgust in her voice that the Lu girl either couldn’t hear or didn’t care about, because she went even higher on her tiptoes to see better.

“Are they? I thought they were just little.”

Aiguo scooped the Lu girl up and lifted her as high as he could, and she shrieked, putting her hands on his head for balance. Lan Fan rolled her eyes. Nobles were stupid. _Just because no one’s bothered us yet doesn’t mean we need you to go drawing attention to us,_ she thought at them, drawing her knife again and tossing it hand to hand. There was a little girl watching in the crowd, her thumb in her mouth, eyes following the blade, and Lan Fan added her second dagger to the mix. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mingli’s mouth quirk up into a little smile. Lien Hua was watching her, her eyes glinting, looking like a cat that had managed to snag a sparrow.

Lan Fan added a third knife, this one from her forearm sheath, and left it at that. She’d practiced juggling for years, though knife juggling was smething she’d started working on right before they’d left for Amestris, and if she tried she could keep six blades in the air at a time. Considering she _had_ six blades on her right now, it was possible, but a bad idea to show off to her enemies where she kept all her weapons. The little girl’s eyes were big enough to look like little saucers in her face, and she tugged at her mother’s skirt, pointing at Lan Fan and lisping something Lan Fan couldn’t hear. Thankfully, the Caos hadn’t noticed.

The whistle blew for the horses to come to the track, and Lan Fan cycled her knives one last time before catching them, one by one. She winked at the little girl, and then went to stand between Lien Hua and Mingli. Lien Hua nudged her in the side. “Having fun, horse-daughter?”

“Somehow.”

Lien Hua’s lips tightened, and she shot a glance at the Cao boys that could only be called deadly. “They have influence in certain circles, or so I’ve heard. They wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Why do they hate the Qarashi woman so much?”

Lien Hua launched into an explanation of the Qarash border dispute, and Lan Fan only half listened. Unlike Xinzhe, there was nothing in Lien Hua’s explanation that could be read into as anything other than a detailed, but brief, account of what had happened when Master Ling had first come into power. Dong Mao had laughed at Aiguo’s jokes That meant that out of the three of them, Xinzhe was the weak link, the one closest to the Qarashi.

He was also gone. Lan Fan craned her neck to see over the crowd, but there was nothing to distinguish Xinzhe Feng from the rest of the surging crowd; they’d all been sure to dress in dark colors and dusty clothes, and in the sea of black heads, one was as unidentifiable as the next. The second whistle blew, and around them the crowd exploded into roars. Her ears rung from the sound. Lien Hua pushed her way through the crowd, right to the edge of the track, and Lan Fan followed her, seizing her by the back of her veil. “You’ll get trampled!”

“No I won’t,” said Lien Hua, and her eyes glittered with excitement. “Just watch.”

The roar of the crowd turned to a scream, and out in the center of the track, a man with a scruffy beard and a torn shirt clambered on top of the covered well. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “ _Riders, positions_!”

In spite of herself, Lan Fan stepped up to join Lien Hua. Her heart was pounding in her chest; her palms were sweating. The Xuqu black was closest to the crowd, and the Lu girl was wrong; these horses weren’t ugly at all. They were gorgeous, even the smallest and rattiest of them, as they stamped and whipped their heads up and down, snorting as the crowd tore itself into a frenzy. The horse wearing Shiqu colors was a prancing bay mare, a Yuan brand marked proud on her hindquarters. It looked old. She felt someone push her from behind, and shoved back before realizing it was Mingli; Lan Fan grabbed him by his collar and dragged him forward to join them, and Mingli nodded an apology before going on his tiptoes to see what was going on.

Lien Hua threw an arm around her neck, and shouted into Lan Fan’s ear. “ _I have a bet running on the Niuqu horse to win!_ ”

Lan Fan leaned closer and shouted back. “ _When did you have time to go betting?_ ”

“ _I’ll tell you someday!_ ” Lien Hua yelled, and then stuck her fingers in her ears. Lan Fan copied her without question, because at that moment someone let off an Amestrian gun, and the horses lunged forward.

It was speed. It was power. It was nothing she’d ever seen before. The horses looked as though they were floating on air, as though they were earth-bound dragons eating up the earth as they tore down the track. The announcer was shouting, but Lan Fan couldn’t hear it over the pounding of hoofbeats on earth, over the screams of the crowd. The square had transformed into a different planet: one of colored scarves and shouting men and the endless drum of horse feet as they whipped around the corner, and started down the other side of the track. The Yuan-guo horse was in the lead by a length, her jockey holding her head tight against her chest, keeping her from her full pace. _Let her go_ , Lan Fan urged silently, _let her run_ , but there were still three laps to go, and if she _was_ a Yuan-guo horse, she was best suited for sprinting in the final stretch. She remembered Suyin coming her stallion’s mane, one hand resting on his shoulder, reassuring. _Yuan horses are good,_ she’d said, _but nothing can beat a Ma horse in a half-mile._ But this track was barely five-hundred feet all around; the whole race just nudged each horse over half a mile. When the Shiqu horse crossed the finish line first, Aiguo let out a cracking whoop of excitement that made her want to punch him. The crowd bellowed, some in agony, some in delight, and the Xuqu black was edging up the line, now. She loved the look of him, Lan Fan decided, all legs and head and scars, like an old soldier on leave; the one-eyed jockey had a mouth like a knife as he urged the gelding forward. _Gelded for convenience or gelded to keep him from following the mares_? Lan Fan wondered, because in races like this, either could be true.

There was a hiss, and a strike, and blood spattered the earth. The Weiqu people screamed in fury as their jockey reeled back, bleeding from a blow to the head. The horse spun out, screaming at the smell of blood, and the Douqu stallion nudged his way forward in the line. Mingli looked pasty, his fingers clenched tight around his book; he wasn’t even pretending to read anymore. A Lu girl screamed. Lan Fan tightened her hands into fists, and snarled under her breath.

“ _First blood_!” Lien Hua screamed. “ _First blood to Douqu_!” and the announcer was echoing her as the horses blazed past the finish line for a second time, and they were in hell, Lan Fan was sure of it, some kind of twisted world were blood was a prize and horses shrieked for dominance. The Yuan mare was still in the lead by at least a length, but her jockey was starting to look nervous, and she wasn’t quite sure why until she caught the fumble. _Her shoe’s loose,_ Lan Fan realized. She was going to throw a shoe, and who knew what was going to happen when she did it. “ _Pull up_!” she screamed, and she didn’t even realize it was her screaming until her throat started to hurt. “ _Pull up, she’s going to go down_!”

But of course the jockey didn’t hear her, of course he urged her onward, because this was Shiqu’s moment, their chance, and the Niuqu horse was nudging its way up the line. She was a gorgeous, grizzly old mare, her white sides painted with green handprints, and she snapped and bit at the other animals as she passed, her teeth crashing together with a sound like a shattering plate. Mingli grabbed her shoulder. “ _They train the horses for that_!”

“ _That’s barbaric!_ ” Lan Fan shouted, and on her other side Lien Hua whooped with glee as the Niuqu horse lunged and caught the ear of the Douqu gelding. There was a terrible scream, one that sounded almost human, and then blood was everywhere, spattering her face, and the Douqu gelding had leapt into the crowd, his ear torn and bleeding, his jockey struggling for control. She heard a few screams, and the crowd pressed in on her, struggling to get away.

When she saw Lien Hua again, her face and teeth were smeared with blood, and she was screaming the horses on. _Barbaric_ , Mingli had said. And the court people called _her_ barbaric. She wanted to run to the horse and its rider, wanted to find the Weiqu jockey and bind up his head before it became a scar, but the race was still on. They were on the third lap now, almost halfway through, and the Xuqu horse was pushing its way up the line, the one-eyed jockey intent and focused, his crop at the ready. The Yuan mare had somehow not yet stumbled, her shoe clinging by the final nail, and if they could complete the last lap they would win, lame and all. Biqu and Nuqu were battling it out for fourth place, their crops whistling in the air; Niuqu’s mare and her bloody lips were surging forward to second, and the Xuqu horse was in a steady place in third. _Let him go_ , Lan Fan thought again, but this time she was staring at the one-eyed jockey. _Let him go, let him have his head. Let him go_.

The shoe flew. With a wild cry, the Shiqu mare tumbled forward, her forelegs tangling, rear legs flying out, and there was a horrible crack. One of her legs was broken. Someone screamed, and then the whole crowd took up the cry—rage, pain, triumph. Lan Fan wanted to cry. “You killed her!” she shouted, “You _killed_ her!” and Aiguo Cao was roaring in fury, tearing his hat from his head and throwing it to the ground as Shiqu’s Yuan mare was left on the racetrack, her rider scrambling to get out from under her. His leg was broken, she thought; his face had gone white and pasty, sweat beaded on his upper lip, and there were a few others trying to yank him out from underneath the mare. She was trying so hard to get up, but every time she put weight on her left foreleg, it crumpled beneath her. Blood matted the fur just above her hocks. “No,” Lan Fan said, but there was no saving a horse with a broken leg. She knew that. There was another wild scream from the crowd, and when she wrenched her eyes away from the Shiqu mare, the Xuqu horse had pushed his way up to second, and the one-eyed jockey was lashing out with his whip. The Niuqu rider tried to block, but he was younger, frightened, much too slow; the crop cut him in the shoulder, and then in the face, and he was thrown off the horse by the strength of the blow. Lan Fan screamed again as the Biqu and Nuqu horses lunged forward, and though the Nuqu horse gave a little hop and leapt clean over him, the Biqu horse wasn’t so agile. A hoof landed on his hand, and a rear-leg clipped his head, and Lan Fan didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward onto the track, shaking off Mingli’s hand, and seized the boy by his uninjured shoulder. He had to be twelve or thirteen, and that was at the most; his arm was so skinny she could feel the bone pressing through the skin.

She dragged him back with her, out of the fray, and tore off her overcoat, wrapping it tight over the boy’s bad shoulder. He was crying, tears cleaning tracks of dirt off his bony face. Mingli knelt next to her, and without her asking, he’d whipped off his jacket, folded it up, and pressed it to the lash on the boy’s head. She met his eyes, nodding a thank you. Beside them, Lien Hua was shouting on the Xuqu horse, as the black moved from second to first, and then the gun went off again. The crowd was pressing in on them on all sides; people were going to get trampled. Lan Fan scooped the boy up in her arms again, and pushed her way back through the crowd, towards the stalls selling cheap souvenirs. When people saw the blood on her hands, on her face, they moved out of the way. Mingli trotted along at her heels.

Her ears were ringing, she realized, once they made it out of the crush. She could barely hear. Lan Fan turned off into a side street and then sat down, settling the boy in her lap. His pupils were dilated, one larger than the other, and she looked up at Mingli. “He needs a doctor.”

“Damn.” There was horse blood spattered across his glasses. Mingli took them off and wiped them clean on his pale undershirt, leaving a reddish-brown stain. His hands were trembling so badly he nearly dropped them. “Damn.”

The boy mumbled something under his breath. She leaned down, putting her ear to his lips. A name. “Changchang,” he said, and then moaned. He was so young, she thought. He reminded her of children she had seen in the desert, of beggars. He probably was one. When she glanced under his shirt to check on the crop cut, she could see other scars.

“A _doctor_ , Mingli!” she said again, and he jumped. “He needs a doctor. He’s been kicked in the head. A _doctor_ , go and find one!”

“Right,” said Mingli, “right,” and he ran back out of the alleyway. Lan Fan checked the boy’s eye again, and then looked at his hand. His fingers were all crushed, and when she pinched one finger gently between two of hers, she could feel the bones moving about like tiny pebbles. _Crippled_ , she thought, and there was a flash of the Shiqu mare with her leg all bloodied, and she felt like she was going to be sick.

Plebeian pursuits, Lien Hua had called it. _Rough._ “Rougher than I like,” she said, and using her knife and her teeth, she tore off a strip of her skirt and started wrapping the boy’s shoulder. That hadn’t been a horse race. It had been a war.

“Excuse me.”

Lan Fan looked up, her knife in hand, and squinted. It was the half-Qarashi woman, the one from the stall a few rows down. Her eyes were wide behind her veil at the sight of the boy, but then they narrowed, and she came forward, hands out, a gesture of peace. “I know medicine,” she said, and her Xingese was as flawless as Niu Lu’s. “I can help the boy, if you’ll let me.”

Lan Fan searched her eyes. Then she nodded, and the Qarashi woman was beside her in an instant, checking the boy’s pulse, peeling back an eyelid to look at the pupils. “How hard was he kicked?” she asked, her fingers—they were pale, like a Xing woman’s—dancing over the crop wound in his shoulder. “I heard them shouting.”

“Hard enough.” Lan Fan tore another strip of cloth out of her skirt, rolled it up into a square, and set it against the cut on the boy’s head. “I didn’t want to touch the head wound, I don’t know enough about them.”

“This will need to be stitched,” the veiled woman said, tapping the skin just beyond the shoulder wound. Carefully, she ran her fingers over the boy’s neck, his throat, up to his skull. The boy groaned. “I don’t feel any broken bones. It’s possible that his brain is swelling. Or not; I can’t know for sure, not when it’s like this.”

“What about the cut?”

“That one was a glancing blow; he’ll need bandages, but head wounds always look worse than they are.” Lan Fan offered another strip of cloth, and the woman took it, folding it up into a neat square and pressing it on the head wound. She hummed under her breath, mumbling something in Qarashi, and stroked the boy’s cheek.

“His name is Peizhi,” she said, and her voice was sad. “He comes around my stall sometimes selling trinkets.”

“Is his family nearby?”

“I don’t think he has one.”

Lan Fan bit her lip. Outside, they were chanting a name. Probably the Xuqu rider. She couldn’t make it out. She leaned back against the wall of the alley, rubbing her temples, and she felt the blood left behind on her skin, slick and warm. “Where’s the nearest doctor? I sent my friend out to get one.”

“He’d have wretched good luck if he actually found one. Most of the doctors around here won’t leave their paying patients for one of the jockeys.” She stroked Peizhi’s cheek. “The mare is Changchang. I should go collect her; otherwise Nuqu or Biqu might steal her. I’ll be back,” she added, and then vanished off into the crowd again.

Lan Fan gathered the boy up into her arms, and left her fingertips resting on his chest. His heart fluttered like a bird’s, like a trapped fledgling, and he was mumbling again, nonsense words that she could only just hear. Her ears were only just starting to recover from the screams. She wondered where the Feng triplets were, the Cao boys, the Lu girls. Mingli. She leaned her head back against the wall, smeared with dirt and blood. When she opened her eyes again, the Qarashi woman was back, with the demon mare at her side. The mare was snorting, eyes rolling, sweat lathering her chest and sides, and the Qarashi woman’s eyes were creased with worry.

“She needs walking,” she said, “and washing. Get the blood off her. She’ll be wild like this for a while. She was used out on border patrol,” she added, “up north,” and Lan Fan bit her tongue as she thought of what war horses were trained for, up on the northern borders. It was a miracle the mare hadn’t lunged forward and torn out the Qarashi woman’s throat.

“Help me get him on the horse,” she said, and the Qarashi woman’s eyes tightened. Then she nodded, and stepped forward, yanking the animal with her.

Lan Fan tore another strip of cloth off her skirt. It was up to her knees now, scandalously high, but she’d worn worse, and frankly, she didn’t care much at the moment. She put the boy down again, put her knife between her teeth. _Bite me,_ she thought at the horse, _and I will skin you alive._ The mare’s eyes rolled, and Lan Fan leaped; she wrapped the cloth tight over the mare’s eyes, tying it under her jaw, and smacked her nose as those vicious teeth lunged forward and closed on empty air. The mare jerked her head, and the Qarashi woman cried out as the rope was nearly torn from her hands. “Calm _down_ ,” Lan Fan snarled, and seized the rope, jerking hard. “Calm _down_ , you stupid animal! _Calm!_ ”

She’d heard the soldiers shout the same thing at their war horses during training, and by some miracle, it worked. The mare’s ears flicked forward, she stamped both feet, reared up on her hind legs just for a moment, and when Lan Fan yanked her down a second time, she stayed down. Her ears were pricked and her head was bobbing, but even though she was trembling all over, she wasn’t lunging for a throat. Lan Fan let out a breath that shook more than she liked, and hesitantly put a hand on the horse’s cheek. “Quiet,” she said, in the Ma dialect. “Quiet, now.”

The Qarashi woman was staring at her.

“I’m Ma,” she snapped, and jerked her head at Peizhi. “Get the boy on the damn horse.”

It was the first time, she realized, once the slim Qarashi woman had heaved the boy up onto the mare’s back, that she’d claimed her fake identity as though she’d meant it. She bit her tongue, and offered a curt bow.

“My thanks for your help.”

“You’re taking him to a doctor?” the Qarashi woman asked, clasping her shaky, bloodied hands together, and Lan Fan nodded.

“I know a good one, not too far.” _Not_ that _far anyway_ , she thought, and urged the mare back. A hand clasped her shoulder, and Lan Fan nearly cut it off before she realized it was just the Qarashi woman again, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Please,” she said. “Please…please let me know how he does. Please.”

Lan Fan hesitated. Then she covered the woman’s hand with her own, and squeezed. “As soon as I have any knowledge of his recovery, I’ll return to you. I swear it. You did well,” she added. “You may have saved his life.”

“You’re the one who saved his life,” said the woman, “I just helped.” She bowed her head. “My name is Xiaoqing, mistress. If you wish to find me, go to the Autumn Moon Inn and ask at the bar. They’ll know where to track me down.”

“I am Feiyan,” said Lan Fan, and when she looked over Xiaoqing’s shoulder, she could see Lien Hua and her brothers, searching the crowd. “I have to go. I’ll come to you soon.”

The mare was still frothing. Lan Fan frowned, first at the mare, then at the boy, who was still bleeding. His face was pale. He needed help now. Then she stepped up onto a box, and heaved herself onto Changchang’s back, behind Peizhi’s limp body. Lien Hua pointed, shouted her name, and Lan Fan lifted a hand. Across the street, Mingli was staring at her, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “I’m taking him back!” she shouted, and settled the boy against her chest. “Meet me there!”

Mingli nodded. Lan Fan met Lien Hua’s eyes, inclinded her head in a goodbye, and then she kicked the warhorse forward. Muscles tensed and surged, and Changchang leapt, her sides heaving, legs trembling from the effort.

She did not look back.

 


	6. Dart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter soundtrack:  
> “In A Box”, from _The Legend of Korra: Season One_ soundtrack.  
>  “Oboroge”, from the _Mononoke_ soundtrack.

**Five: Dart**

There were seven doctors in residence in the Imperial Household. These were not the imperial doctors, precisely—the Emperor had healers of his own, the Princess Chang among them—but those seven were on call at all hours of the day or night, to be summoned by established members of the court when necessary.

Out of those seven, Gao Bai was the oldest, the one with the fewest alkahestry braids, and, she thought privately, possibly the kindest of them all. Most imperially-employed alkahestrists wouldn’t drop their own personal projects to attend to a beggar boy, and even fewer would have cast a detoxification circle, to make sure he wasn’t suffering from something other than the head wound. “He’ll have a bad headache,” Gao Bai said, wiping the chalk off his hands with a damp cloth, “but he’ll survive.”

On the cot, Peizhi was finally settled into something that could be called sleep, the gash on his head covered with fresh skin, his shoulder almost fully healed. Mei Chang, she thought, would have had him up and moving in five minutes, but she could not ask the Princess Chang for help, and as it was, this was infinitely better than the boy being dead.

Gao Bai continued. “I managed to reduce the swelling of the brain, and repaired the crack in his skull, but there’s not much I can do to take the pain away. His hand is also extraordinarily fragile, which is why I’ve put it in a cast, to keep the bones from snapping again. If he’s lucky, he’ll regain full use of it within a few months.” He took a breath, and let it out. “He also had blacklung, or the first few weeks of it, anyway; I burned that out of him as best I could, but you’ll need to keep an ear on his breathing for as long as he’s here to make sure there’s no rasp. He’ll also be passing some worms over the next couple of days, so warn him, would you? It’ll be unpleasant, but it’s necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’ll need some feeding, that’s for certain. Not too much all at once. If he eats more than his body’s used to right off, he’ll just throw it back up. Simple foods for a few days, then start building up. Nothing too rich, obviously. Fish, rice, clear soups. You can give him meat once he starts feeling up to that. And don’t let him run around. From his teeth, he’s twelve or thirteen, but his body weight and growth rate put him at about ten years old, so he needs to build himself back up before he goes gallivanting off to who knows where.” He gave Peizhi a sidelong look. “He’s a shrimp now, but don’t let that fool you. Once he puts some damn weight on, his body will do all its growing at once, and he’ll end up being at least a handlength taller than you, Lady Ma. Mark my words.”

Lan Fan bit her tongue, and then bowed deep at the waist. She could feel the Commander’s eyes hot on her back; if he could, she thought, he would be boring holes into her spine with the force of his glare. She couldn’t exactly blame him; she’d gone out with the Fengs to gain information, and had come back with a broken beggar boy, bloody hands, and a gray mare with extraordinary anger management issues. Not exactly a mission well done, she thought, and shame prickled at the back of her neck. Then she looked at Peizhi again, the dirt wiped from his face, the scars on his collarbone, and forced some steel into her spine. She closed her eyes. “Thank you, sir.  I am grateful to you. If there’s anything I can do for you—”

“Best not leave yourself open like that in this place, girl. There are people here who would skin you alive if you gave them an offer like that.” Lan Fan blinked, and looked up. Gao Bai was smiling at her, his thin mustache twitching like a cat’s whiskers. “He should be waking up on his own in a few hours. Call me if there is any change in the boy’s condition, if he seems to be in any pain or discomfort. And if you’d like to tell me the story, one day, of how a noble lady such as yourself found herself determined to rescue a wounded slum jockey, my door is always open.”

She straightened, and then bowed again, shorter this time. “As you say, sir.”

Gao Bai’s smile grew wider, and he clapped her on the back a few times before heading for his office again. Commander Yao shut the door carefully behind him, and Lan Fan winced at the click of the lock. She’d never seen Shan Yao so furious, not even when her master had tricked her, when they’d both been seven, into flinging his older cousin into a lake full of algae.

“Do you want to explain,” said the Commander, in a terrifyingly level voice, “how you left the palace with our targets and came back with a beggar boy?”

“He was one of the jockeys. He was knocked off his horse. He was _trampled_ ,” she said, hardening her voice, and fixing her eyes over the Commander’s shoulder at a wall-scroll of a holy mountain peak. “I couldn’t leave him to die.”

“Gods save us, Feiyan, you’re more professional than this!” Somehow, the Commander had mastered the technique of shouting and whispering at the same time, the way her grandfather used to. It was making her muscles itch inside her skin, the way his _qi_ was battering at her shields, the way an avalanche buries a hillside. “There’s nothing to be gained and everything to be lost because of what you’ve done today! You _left_ those three unguarded and unwatched to rescue a—a sewer brat from the Xu District. You know where you came from, you know what we have to do; you have to have more _sense_ than that!” 

She was silent.

“Do you understand what you’re risking by this? By making the life of this—this _slum-boy_ a priority, you have put your already unstable relationship with our targets in danger! You violated not only your imperial mandate but your common sense in taking this boy and fleeing the scene like a—like a criminal.”

Lan Fan clenched her hands tight into fists. Her arm creaked. She was shaking, her fingers were trembling, her jaw ached from the effort of keeping her mouth shut, but finally she licked her lips and said, “So I should have left him there to die?”

The Commander opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Obviously, leaving the boy to die wasn’t an option. But leaving your target was. You should’ve put the boy into the hands of his own people, his own family—”

“I was told he had none. Besides, even if he had, there was no doctor within a dozen blocks of that track. He would have died if I hadn’t done something.”

She shouldn’t be talking like this. Not to the Commander. Not to the man who was in charge of her work, her superior, a man with thousands of soldiers under his command, a man who could, if he wished, have her sent back to the Huo in disgrace. But something in her belly was boiling; out of the corner of her eye she could see Peizhi, crusted blood still damp on his forehead, and when she looked down at her hands she could see more blood under her fingernails, in between the lines and calluses of her palm, in the joints of her metal hand. She was _angry_ , she realized, and it tasted like brackish water in her mouth.

“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but it was a decision that had to be made. So far as I can tell, the only risk I have taken today was in taking the Niuqu mare. She will be returned as soon as I can find someone trustworthy to return her _to_. My position as a whole has been unchanged, nor was my trip today fruitless, as you will see when I turn in my report to you this evening.” She met his eyes, and forced herself not to glare. “I am not an idiot, Commander. I made a decision, which I believed saved the life of one of this city’s people. That is all there is to be said.”

“That’s _not_ all there is to be said, Feiyan Ma. This is the closest we have come to our birds in a very, very long time. If your actions today have ruined that chance—”

“They have not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“No, but respectfully, sir, neither can you. Not this early in the game.” The Commander’s mouth snapped shut. His eyebrows lifted. Lan Fan wondered if her heart was going to burst in her chest; it was beating so hard and fast she could feel it slamming against her sternum. She had never spoken back to her superiors before, not like this. She bit her tongue, and hung her head. “However, if you would prefer to have me removed from this post, I will accede to your wishes. You are, after all, the commander.”

The silence stretched out, thin as ribbon. She clasped her hands tight behind her back, and stared at the floor, waiting. Wherever this streak of rebellion had come from, she thought, digging her nails into her palms, she needed to bury it again, quick-fast. All it would do is get her cover blown and her people killed.

 _I told him,_ she thought, and to her horror her eyes welled up with frustrated tears. _I told him. I can’t be a spy. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’ve failed him._

The Commander cleared his throat. “Feiyan, you’re the one in the field, not me. There will be decisions, like this one, that you’ll have to make on the fly, things you can’t prepare for. Abandoning your targets this afternoon was foolhardy and reckless, and you know it.”

She flinched, and squeezed her eyes shut.

“But,” he said, and suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder, fingers digging into her collarbone. “You saved a life, today. That’s a thing that can’t be undone, or forgotten. In fact, it should be honored.”

Lan Fan couldn’t breathe. She peeked up at him through her eyelashes. Commander Yao was smiling, all the way up to his eyes, and just like Gao Bai, he clapped her shoulder a few times before tucking his hands back into his sleeves. He looked tired, she realized; there were smudges under his eyelids and he smelled strongly of black tea. “I think I forgot that you’re not exactly a rookie, cousin.”

She blinked.

“You have instincts,” he said. “And unlike the others we’ve lost in this game, you have opportunity. Be sure to use them.” His hand slipped off her shoulder, and he turned, heading for the door. The Commander paused on the threshold. “I expect a full report by the last bell. By the way—” he grinned at her over his shoulder “—the brat says hello.”

She flushed red, whether it was with rage or embarrassment she wasn’t sure; she wanted to hide her face, punch the Commander in the gut, and run away, all at once. The Commander let out a bark of a laugh, and then left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Lan Fan only just made it to the chair beside Peizhi’s bed before her legs gave out.

 

* * *

 

 

Peizhi was still sleeping by the time she finally made it back from the baths, and Niu Lu had no changes to report, so Lan Fan dismissed her to work in another room while she took over watching the boy. She let out a small breath, and then sat down next to the cot, slowly and methodically wiping water droplets out of the joints between her metal fingers. Water never actually did anything to automail—the metal was always specially melded so it wouldn’t rust, no matter how soaked it could get—but she hated the feeling of it between her joints. She’d never really thought about the insides of her fingers until she lost her arm, but she could think about it now, and it bothered her, the way it bothered her when damp hair clung to the back of her neck, or there was a bit of grass in her sleeve that she couldn’t get her hands on. It was just…phenomenally irritating. At least she could do something to get the water out.

Lan Fan wiped drops of bathwater out from the grooves where her fingernails should have been, and sighed. She had never gone so directly against a superior like that, not one that she barely had any experience with. She had argued with her grandfather all the time, but that was only once he’d decreed that she was old enough, experienced enough, strong enough to accompany him and the prince as a fully-acknowledged bodyguard, not just a girl with a knife and a smoke bomb—and even then, the arguments had only been about the job. She would have never criticized him for a rightful dressing-down, would have never talked back. He was her grandfather.

Perhaps, she thought, bending her arm so she could get at the inside of her elbow, that was why she had talked back to Commander Yao. He wasn’t her grandfather; he may have been a member of the family she had sworn herself to, but he was neither her relative nor her master, and though he was her superior, it wasn’t quite the same. Which was ridiculous; in battle, a commander was a commander, regardless of their relationship with the soldier.

But this wasn’t quite a battle. Not the way she was used to. Not the way she’d been trained for. She closed her eyes, and rested her metal arm on her knee. She wasn’t just taking orders. She was making her own. She’d been making her own decisions for years, ever since they’d returned to Xing, but that was as a bodyguard. She was an instrument, used to protect, to preserve, to cherish. She was the last barrier, the final wall to breach, the last man standing between the Emperor and those who would rather wish him dead. So her choices had always been extraordinarily simple: protect the Emperor, or not.

It wasn’t the same. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck; she swiped it away with her flesh fingers. This job wasn’t the same. This wasn’t what she had trained for. The end goal was similar—defend the Emperor, protect her master from those who would subdue him—but the choices, _her_ choices, her options, were incredibly, startlingly different, and the methods were almost incomprehensible. She glanced at the boy on the bed, at the little jockey who had nearly died, and ran her fingers through her hair one last time. She hadn’t made the wrong decision with this boy, but the Commander had been right—she was out of her depth, out of her natural realm, and instead of cowering, she had to fix it. Otherwise, she would no longer be of use.

“Who’re you?”

Lan Fan looked up from her hands, and blinked. Peizhi was awake. His pupils had shrunk to their usual size, she noted with satisfaction; there was color in his cheeks, and he was staring at her with a most inscrutable expression, as though he’d been expecting a slug and found a butterfly instead. Then his eyes narrowed, turned hard. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my rooms,” Lan Fan said, and stood up. Gao Bai had said he would wake up soon, but she hadn’t expected that to be within the hour. She rested the back of her flesh hand on his forehead, and then on his cheek. “You shouldn’t get up. You were kicked in the head.”

He tried to get up anyway. “Where’s Changchang?”

“Your mare is safe. Someone’s washing the blood off her now.” She didn’t know if that was true, but she highly doubted the fastidious grooms of the imperial stable would be content leaving an old warhorse covered in human blood.

His eyes widened. “They don’t know what she is, she’s gonna kill them—”

“They know precisely what she is, because I told them. Lie down.”

“But I—”

She fixed her eyes on him. Not even Master Ling talked back to her when she looked at him that way. “Lie. Down. _Now_.”

Peizhi lay down. His good hand clenched on the blankets, and then loosened just as quickly, as though he didn’t quite expect to find silk under his fingertips. She knew she hadn’t, the first night she’d slept in them. He went back to staring at her. “Who’re you?” he asked again, and Lan Fan sat back, going back to drying her arm.

“My name is Feiyan,” she said. “I was at the race. You fell off because the Xu District rider cut you in the face. Then you were kicked in the head. I pulled you off the track. Your friend Xiaoqing knows where you are, but for the moment, you need to stay in bed and _rest_. You were struck hard and it’s a miracle you’re even awake right now, so if you try to get up again I will personally tie you to the bed. Is that clear?”

He gaped at her. Lan Fan didn’t look up; instead, she blew on her fingers to try and dry them faster. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d said so many words in a row, but then again, it had been a while since she’d had someone in her bed with a broken skull. Not as long as she’d like, but a while. She flicked her eyes up, and Peizhi turned to stare at the wall scroll. “Xiaoqing told me your name is Peizhi. Is that true?”

“Mm.” He didn’t quite seem to be able to look at her anymore. “How d’you know Xiaoqing, mistress?”

“She came after me when I took you away from the racetrack. I’ll be visiting her tomorrow, to let you know that you’re awake and talking. You won’t be coming with me,” she said, as soon as he opened his mouth. “I’ll be leaving a woman here with you to make sure you stay in bed. How’s your breathing?”

He took a breath, stopped, and then breathed deeper, his eyes going so wide that she almost blinked. “I can breathe,” he said, and took another huge gulp of air. “My lungs—”

“I was told you had blacklung. The healer burned most of it out, but we’re going to have to keep an ear on your breathing for the next few weeks to make sure it doesn’t return.” She hesitated. She could tell him about the worms later. “No pain?”

He shook his head. Peizhi digested that for a while. Lan Fan had just about finished with her elbow by the time he spoke again. “Where are we, again?”

“In my rooms off of the Bamboo Gardens.”

“No, I mean—” He bit his tongue. “Are…are we in the Zhuque Ward, mis—milady?”

“No, we’re not.” She wasn’t sure if that made him more or less nervous, but he did let out a little breath when he heard it. Lan Fan stood, and poured a cup of water, handing it to him. Peizhi reached out with his bad hand, stared at it for a moment, and then took the cup with his left instead. She waited until he was finished swallowing before she continued. “As I said, we’re in my rooms, just off of the Bamboo Gardens, in the Eastern Ward of the Imperial City.”

All the blood left his face, and Peizhi dropped down onto the pillows again. Lan Fan scowled. “Don’t move your head like that.”

“Imp—” he wheezed. “ _Imperial_?” Then he looked down at the blankets again, turned red, turned white, turned red again, and tried to get up. Lan Fan put her automail hand on his shoulder, and pushed him back.

Maybe it was the automail, or maybe it was the fact that she was touching him, or maybe his head just hurt too much, but Peizhi fell back again. He stared at her, and she didn’t like the look in his eyes—part awe, part fear, part fury. She dug her fingers into his skin.  

“I told you that if you sat up I would tie you to the bed. Don’t make me warn you again.”

The knock was quiet, almost inaudible, but it still made Peizhi jump. Lan Fan pulled away from him, and stood, calling for Niu Lu; it was only once the words were out of her mouth that she realized she’d slipped into northwestern, and if possible, Peizhi’s eyes grew even bigger at the sight of the redheaded Niu Lu poking her head out from the office. Lan Fan nodded to Peizhi, and then double-checked to make sure her window was locked (she wouldn’t put it past him to try and climb out as soon as her back was turned) before pulling her jacket on over her bare shoulders and heading for the door.

She had been expecting the Commander, Gao Bai, _someone_ who had been here within the past two hours and who she had some idea of how to handle while she had wet hair and a beggar boy lying in her cot, but instead Mingli Chen and Xinzhe Feng stood on her threshold. Mingli was shifting from foot to foot, and when she opened the door, he rocked back onto his heels. Next to him, Xinzhe was quiet. He really did look just like his sister, she thought, that same razor-sharp beauty that they all shared; the only difference was that he didn’t have his sister’s white streak.

“Lord Chen,” said Lan Fan. “Lord Feng. I…did not expect you.”

“Chen told me you’d rescued one of the jockey boys from the racetrack,” Xinzhe said. He studied her, eyes flicking from her wet hair to her automail fingers (had he not noticed them before? She had worn gloves outside) and then he glanced over her shoulder, into the room. The cot was obscured from view thanks to the curtains she’d had put up, but there was no mistaking a shadow behind them. Niu Lu looked up, met her gaze, and turned back to the boy, speaking in low tones. “May we see him?”

Lan Fan bit her tongue. Then she schooled her face to blankness. “I’m afraid he’s only just woken, and he’s having…difficulties with where he is. Too much input would be hard on him at the moment. I’d be willing to let you see him the day after tomorrow, perhaps, but not today.”

“Is he well, at least?” Mingli asked. Lan Fan looked at him again. There was a crease of worry on the corner of his mouth, and when he caught her watching him, he shoved his glasses up his nose to hide it. Lan Fan glanced back into the room one last time, and then stepped out of her chambers and shut the door behind her, crossing her arms over her chest.

“As well as can be expected, considering. His skull was cracked, his hand was crushed, and he lost some blood, but he’s young, and even though he’s malnourished, he’s strong. He’ll be well in a few days.”

Mingli sighed, caught himself, and turned it into a cough. There was still blood under his fingernails. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

“So you are a horsewoman after all,” Xinzhe said, leaning back against the wall. His eyes were creased with a smile that didn’t show on his face. “I saw you get up on that charger. All of you covered in blood. You scared the living daylights out of half the district, riding that animal blindfolded.”

“She had teeth,” said Lan Fan, and glanced at Mingli again, wondering what a Chen was doing with a Feng outside of a group like the one she’d joined this morning. Perhaps they were friends. There was a funny sort of camaraderie between them that she hadn’t noticed before, not when Dong Mao was mocking them all and the Cao boys were threatening half-blood Qarashi women. She lowered her voice. “Besides, she wasn’t blindfolded once I mounted. The Qarashi woman took it off.”

“Told you,” Xinzhe said, and Mingli glared up at the ceiling. Her hair was sticking to the back of her neck again. Lan Fan fought the urge to scratch it away. “She’s not _that_ mythical.”

“I’m not mythical at all,” said Lan Fan, and ignored the fact that her ears had gone hot. “I rode a horse and called a doctor. That’s all I did.”

“The way I hear tell you also ran out onto an in-use racetrack full of old warhorses to drag the boy out.” Xinzhe met her eyes again. “That’s not exactly nothing.”

“Anyone would have done it.”

“In the Xu District? You think too highly of the people here, horse-wife. The rest of the riders who were whipped stitched themselves up and moved on to the next race.”

“There’s more than one race?”

“Not ward-wide, but there are always horse races down in Xuanwu. Sometimes even three or four a week. The people can’t live without them. Not like they have anything else to do. It’s just that the Sevens Race is the most popular.” He scratched his cheek. “Sad I missed most of it.”

“You missed it?” Mingli swung his head around, shocked, and Lan Fan was careful to widen her eyes. “Where’d you go?”

“Somewhere,” Xinzhe said, mysteriously. “I saw Xuqu win. That’s all I care about. You, horse-wife, had better offer a formal apology to my sister for leaving her with those Cao bastards. She had to fend off the younger one all the way back up to the palace, and the Lu bitches we brought along weren’t any use at all. At least Aiguo and Heng are scared of you.”

“I wasn’t aware that was my purpose,” Lan Fan said, very carefully. Xinzhe smirked.

“I thought you were supposed to be teaching this girl about the court, Mingli, haven’t you even told her the golden rule yet?” Xinzhe made a show of looking up and down the corridor, then leaned forward, and said, “We’re all just tools here, Feiyan Ma, and I dare you to prove me wrong.”

Lan Fan frowned at him. “I won’t take a bet that I won’t win.”

Xinzhe searched her eyes. This time the smile actually showed on his face. “You’re smart, for a Yao.”

“I’m a Ma,” Lan Fan snapped, though something in her kindled and gleamed at the idea of being a real Yao, instead of just a retainer. Gleamed and died like an old coal. “I’m not the one who married into a flatlander family.”

Xinzhe bared his teeth. “Ouch, that smarts.”

“I had heard,” Mingli said carefully, and Lan Fan and Xinzhe both looked at him, “that Lady Suyin was a princess of your tribe before she came here to court. Is that true?”

“There are no princesses among the Ma,” Lan Fan said. “Suyin’s father is my father’s brother, who died when we were both very young. We shared the same tent for a time. My father may lead our clan, but neither she nor I are anything that you might call a princess.”

Xinzhe scoffed under his breath, checked his nails, and then watched as Mingli took a small notebook out of his sash, opening it, and making a mark with a pencil. Lan Fan frowned again, but she said nothing until Mingli looked up at her, pushing his glasses up his nose. “So you’d say that each tribe operates independently of the other?”

“We are a patchwork quilt,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Each color is separate and sometimes clashes, but all are the same in the end. Why do you ask?”

Mingli opened his mouth to answer, but Xinzhe beat him to it. “Ming’s been studying your people for months, apparently. Never met a real live horse-wife. No offense,” he added, flippantly, and Lan Fan’s frown deepened. Mingli looked as though he’d just had manure thrown in his face. He turned pink, and then red, and then he shut his notebook and shoved it back into his sleeve pocket.

“That’s not what I was doing,” he said, but his voice was so quiet that she could barely make out the words. She glanced at Xinzhe, who was whistling under his breath, and then she reached out and touched Mingli’s elbow lightly with her flesh fingertips. She didn’t like reaching out to people with her metal hand—they shied away more often than not. Automail was not particularly common in Xing.

“I’m not offended if you ask questions,” she said. “As long as you tell me why. Considering you’ve already agreed to teach me about the court, I would say that discussing my people…it would be equivalent exchange.”

Mingli glanced up at her through his bangs, and she dropped her hand. Xinzhe frowned. “Equivalent exchange? You sound like an Amestrian.”

This, she thought, fumingly, was why she didn’t like talking with people. She either ended up wanting to punch someone in the face or kick herself in the foot, and either way it meant that she bit her tongue and glowered and looked generally like an anti-social fool. She tilted her head, and thought fast. “I live beside the Qarashi border for much of the year, Lord Feng. I have met some Amestrians. Sometimes they come out to look at the old ruins in the desert, trying to discover what went wrong. I have guided a few alchemists. They are…” she wrinkled her nose. “Very…pale. They cannot speak Xingese. Or Saatii. They can’t seem to get their tongues around the syllables. We had to use sign language and Ishvalan sometimes, if we were lucky.”

“Mei Chang—she’s one of the imperial cousins—brought an Amestrian back with her when she returned from Amestris, before the Retired Emperor passed. May his soul be unburdened.” Mingli tucked his thumb between his fore- and middle finger in a gesture of respect. “An alchemist. People say she’s teaching him alkahestry.”

“You’re a shameless gossip, Chen.” Xinzhe rolled his eyes. “Even if she _did_ bring an Amestrian back, their country just imploded. It’s doubtful he’s here to do anything more than look around and study alkahestry. A single Amestrian can’t do much, even if he does seem to have powerful friends.”

Lan Fan thought of Alphonse and Master Ling laughing together in the Hall of Pearls, and pressed her lips together. Mingli didn’t notice—he had taken his notebook back out and was paging through it, as though looking for something—but Xinzhe shot her a laughing sideways glance. “Don’t like Amestrians?”

“Amestrians don’t bother me,” she said. “They puzzle me.”

“Want to see one up close? Outside of the desert, anyway.” Xinzhe glanced at Mingli, and then cocked his head at Lan Fan. “There’s a party tomorrow night. Invitation only. I’ve heard the Amestrian alchemist is going to be there. And it’s going to be _very_ modern. You coming?”

“It’s by invitation only,” Lan Fan said stiffly. She felt as though she was about to rattle out of her skin in excitement. “Why would you bring me?”

“To irritate the Chang girl, of course. Rumor is she hates nomads, and since the Fengs and the Changs have been rivals for generations, why not? _We_ weren’t even invited.” Xinzhe shrugged, ignoring Mingli’s look. “Besides, I’d like to know why my sister’s decided to single _you_ out from all of the rest of the court, and I’m not going to do that unless I see you in action, am I?”

She tightened her arms across her stomach. “I thought you said it was because of the Caos.”

Xinzhe merely smiled. “Scared, little horse-wife? Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” she said. “But I’ll come anyway.” She glanced at Mingli. “Are you?”

Mingli went white to the lips. “I—well—”

“Rule one of the imperial court, little horse-wife. Changs _always_ invite Chens. It’s a fact of nature.” He dug his elbow into Mingli’s ribs. “Even if the Chens never accept invitations to anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“True enough.” Xinzhe glanced back at Lan Fan. “He’s coming. So’s Lien Hua and Dong Mao. The Caos invitations mysteriously went missing sometime last night. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to avoid the Yaos long enough to get a good look at Mei Chang’s foreign tumble, irritate her enough to spark, and get out with our lives and manhoods intact.” His eyes dipped to her chest. “Womanhood, in your case, but it’s all the same in the dark.”

Lan Fan deliberately did not cover herself. “What do you mean by modern?”

“Come to our rooms at sunset tomorrow. Lien Hua will teach you.” He dug his fingers into his pockets, and sent her a cocky little bow. “See you tomorrow, little horse-wife.”

With that, he walked away, leaving Mingli and Lan Fan to stand there staring after him. It was only once he’d turned the corner that Lan Fan glanced at MIngli again, eyebrow lifted in a question.

“He’s always like that,” Mingli said, and pushed his glasses up his nose. She blinked. _Always? How long have these two known each other?_ “The boy—he’s truly all right?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “If you would like to see him, you can. He’s awake.”

“No, I had better—” He stepped back, out of reach. Then he took a breath, and held it. “Lady Ma, first lesson in court doings: don’t invite a man in your room in the middle of the day, or the middle of the night, or—or at any point, really. Especially considering the…what people say.”

The notes. _Are horses the only things you ride, Feiyan Ma?_ Lan Fan flushed pink, and looked away. She’d forgotten, as one of the Huo, that men and women treating each other as trustworthy was something that didn’t happen in the rest of the world. “I—oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” He offered a wobbly smile. “I had better go. I promised to meet my sister in the library fifteen minutes ago, and if I don’t find her, she’s going to be…unsettled.”

She blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Three, and all of them are incorrigible. But only Jie’s at court.” Mingli scratched the back of his neck. “We can start the court lessons the day after tomorrow, in the library. There are always other people there, so there…the whispers won’t be very loud.”

“All right.” She bowed to him. “I will see you tomorrow night, then, Lord Chen.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” said Mingli, and she lifted her head to look at him. “Chen is fine.”

“Then I am Ma,” she said, and offered a shy-but-game smile, the only kind she had. “If you don’t mind.”

He nodded, once, sharply. “See you tomorrow, Ma,” he said, and then he marched off down the hall, in the opposite direction of Xinzhe Feng, and Lan Fan locked herself in her room to pen a message to Commander Yao. If she was to be going to a Chang party, she thought, her hands shaking, then Alphonse Elric needed to be told to conveniently not recognize her.

 


	7. Butterfly Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> “Battle in the Forest,” from _The House of Flying Daggers_ soundtrack.  
>  “Fresh Air,” from _The Legend of Korra: Season One_ soundtrack.  
>  “Tank,” from the _Cowboy Bebop_ soundtrack.

**Six: Butterfly Sword**

The next morning, after she and Suyin had gone on their dawn ride, Lan Fan untacked the dun mare and turned her over to the footmen, asking where they had put the old warhorse. Two of the horseboys exchanged wary glances before pointing to the back of the stable and offering to accompany her back there. “That thing is a beast,” one said. “I’ve never seen a mare trained to be a warhorse like _that_. Usually they keep the mares for hard labor, hospital work, and breeding, not…not like that.”

She frowned, and glanced back at Suyin. “Did you clean her off, at least?”

“As best we could, but she won’t let anybody near. We were going to ask Master Zhang this morning, considering he was in the army for ten years, but…” The horseboy shrugged, helplessly. “The last one who went in had to see a healer. She broke his arm.”  

Lan Fan drummed her fingers against her thigh. Suyin was still untacking her stallion, and when she glanced over, Suyin hastily looked away. Lan Fan extended her hand for the rope in the first boy’s hand. “Give me that.”

The horseboy went white. “Lady, she’ll _kill_ you. Warhorses act on command, they don’t—they’re not _vicious._ That animal is a demon, she doesn’t listen to any commands, she doesn’t hear _anything._ She just attacks, and there’s no way you can handle her—begging your pardon, Lady Ma, I know you’re a horsewoman, but warhorses—”

“Give me the rope,” Lan Fan repeated. The horseboys looked at each other, and she reached out again, this time with her automail hand. “I said, _give me the rope._ ”

They gave her the rope. They also trailed her, muttering, as she walked stiff as a board to the very back of the stable, where most of the stalls were empty, and the straw was dusty and old.

They had put Changchang in the very last stall, and one of the largest—probably so they could stay as far away from her as possible. The green handprints of Niuqu were still spattered against her side, and so was some of the blood from the race. Changchang put her ears back and made a noise that before now, Lan Fan would have sworn couldn’t have come from a horse—it was a mix of a growl and a snarl and a whinny, all at once, and it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She stood there, staring, for a long time. She had water, Lan Fan reassured herself, and she’d been fed, but the way she was hunched in the back of the stall, as if waiting for someone or something to attack, worried her. Even a warhorse shouldn’t have been that nervous. “Get me a stool,” she said, and opened the stall door. “Then get out of the way.”

The horseboys looked at her, then at Suyin, who had followed them, and then nodded. Lan Fan took a breath and let it out, holding the rope loosely in her flesh hand. Changchang made the noise again, and pawed at the earth. They’d managed to get most of the blood off her, anyway. She held out both hands. “Calm,” she said, “calm. Calm.” She muttered something under her breath that might have been something she remembered from the tribes, and spoke again. “Calm, Changchang.”

She took a step closer. Changchang’s eyes rolled, and she reared up on her hind legs, lashing out with hooves as large as Lan Fan’s face. Lan Fan spun away, and stepped closer. Grandfather was muttering in her ear. _Move towards the shoulder. Don’t meet their eyes. A panicked horse is just as able to kill you as any assassin, because they are larger, heavier, and stronger than any human could ever be._ She ran her eyes over Changchang’s back again, at the scars and the scrapes that were too new to have been battle-born, and something cold and hard settled in her throat. It might have been fury.

She lowered her voice, spoke forcefully, quietly. “ _Calm_ , Changchang.”

She’d never realized how much horses could be like snakes. Changchang struck like a viper, ears back, teeth bared, and Lan Fan flung up her automail arm just in time; horse teeth closed around a metal wrist, and Changchang’s ears flicked up in surprise. The hard little knot of anger in her throat grew colder. Lan Fan glanced over her shoulder, keeping one eye on the mare, and tossed the rope out of the stall.

“There’s nothing you can do to that,” she told Changchang in the northwestern dialect. Changchang backed up, tossing her head, snorting loudly. “Stronger beasts than you have tried.”

The horseboys were muttering again. She thought she heard the word _crazy_. Lan Fan ignored them. She stepped closer to Changchang, and when the mare reared, she stayed very still. There were older scars on her belly, thin and clean, like sword swipes. Those, at least, were war scars. “You’re a fighter,” she said, and she kept her voice low and her hands down and her eyes away. Changchang lashed out again, and Lan Fan stepped smoothly sideways. “Calm down, Changchang. It’s all right. Calm.”

Changchang made a noise that was a cross between a nicker and a scream, and lifted herself up onto her hind feet one more time; not a rear, just a warning hop. The mare started to pace, back and forth, trying to canter and not having enough room. Lan Fan stayed absolutely still, tracking the movement with her eyes. She was still wearing her bridle, Lan Fan realized, the one made of braided twine; the reins were tangled in her mane. _Her mane and tail need cutting_ , she thought, watching the tail drag along the floor of the stall. There were weeds and knots and bangles, stains and broken hairs. Her mane was almost worse. “Shh,” she said, and held her hands out flat, palms up, fingers together. She took a step forward. “Shh.”

Changchang screamed. Lan Fan stepped back. Changchang paced, and Lan Fan stepped forward again. Forward and back. Changchang was panting, her eyes still rolling, her teeth bared and her ears flat, and what the hell had been done to this mare, she thought, that humans had become such a terror?

She didn’t know how much time had passed by the time she finally managed to get close enough to seize the reins. She kept her hands close to her sides, lifted her voice a little. “Get out of the way,” she said, and this time, nobody argued. She heard the stall door open, and a wave of footsteps. She didn’t look away from Changchang. The mare hadn’t struck out in a while, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t when Lan Fan made her move.

Lan Fan seized a handful of reins and mane, and heaved. She barely had the time to get her right leg over the mare’s back before Changchang lunged, and Lan Fan flung her arms around the mare’s neck and held on as the world changed shape. There was only the smell of horse, sweat, blood, a mane stinging against her face, her seat bucking and jumping and spinning, and she hung on tight, seizing the reins and pulling as hard as she dared; the twine felt about to snap. Changchang flung her head back, and nearly struck Lan Fan in the face; the horse screamed. Down the hall she could hear the other horses whickering, whinnying, trying to understand what was going on, and Lan Fan ducked her head down and kicked Changchang in the sides, and the mare was out of the stall like a lightning bolt. She nearly clipped a horseboy on her way out, but Suyin seized the boy by the back of the neck and wrenched him back before he could end up like Peizhi.

 _How the hell did a boy that tiny stay on this horse for so long?_ She thought, and then she was out in the courtyard, and pulling Changchang in a tight circle. Either the bit was stronger than she’d imagined, or Changchang didn’t like the taste or feel of twine, because even with all the twitching and the squealing and the weird little hops that were half-formed bucks, Changchang complied. She kept the mare spinning in circles as Suyin came running out. “ _I’m going to run her out, open a paddock!”_

Suyin didn’t have to say a word. The horseboys were already running. Lan Fan waited until the gate to the free arena had opened, and then she gave the mare her head.

It was like riding a dragon, she thought. In the single, distant part of her mind that wasn’t focused totally on keeping her seat, she could imagine riding a dragon to be exactly like this. Fast, and dangerous, and breathtaking, and terrifying all at once. She dug her knees in hard, wrapping the reins tight around her hands, and shouted something unintelligible before wrenching Changchang around, running the mare through her paces, up and down the arena at a steady gallop, over posts and around trees and in the most curlicue, convoluted, ridiculous course she could imagine. It was only once she’d started to slow that Lan Fan realized she’d been chattering in her northwestern tones all the way through, saying anything that came to mind, saying things she hadn’t heard for over a decade. As soon as she realized it, she nearly bit her tongue. (That might have been Changchang trying to scrape her off by hitting a tree, though, to be totally honest. By the end of it she really wasn’t sure.)

She wasn’t sure how long it took. It might have been hours. The sun had changed position in the sky by the time Changchang finally started slowing down. Lan Fan’s knees ached as though they’d both been dislocated; she had a feeling her fleshy hand would have marks on it for weeks. _Gloves for me next time_ , she thought, and pulled the mare down to a canter, and then, when she felt the horse heaving for breath underneath her, to a trot. It was only when she’d slowed down to a walk that she realized that she was covered in sweat and dirt and horse hair, that Changchang was fairly frothing, and that it was nearly the middle of the day.

Suyin was standing at the edge of the paddock when Lan Fan uneasily nudged Changchang over, pushing her into a walk. The mare didn’t burst into panic again, which was good, but at the same time, her ears went back at the sight of Suyin, and Lan Fan pulled her to a stop just out of striking range. “I need the Upper Xuanwu Gate opened.”

“Feiyan,” Suyin said, and then slipped into Saatii. Lan Fan goggled. She hadn’t heard Saatii since she’d been very, very little. Five years old. Maybe six. “ _Amjilt husey, Enkhtuyaa._ ”

Lan Fan closed her eyes, clinging to the twine reins, and for a second she almost forgot how to breathe. She hadn’t heard her full name, her _real_ name, since…she couldn’t remember. _How did Suyin know it?_ She had only ever told her grandfather, perhaps once or twice, and once he had given her a new name, it had…She had almost forgotten what it sounded like. She licked her lips. “ _Bayarlalaa,_ _Sarangerel._ ”

The expression on Suyin’s face was indescribable. Fierce. Possessive. Joyous. Proud. She opened the gate, and Lan Fan nudged Changchang out through the gap, feeling hot and cold and honored and terrified all at once. The horseboys had all gathered to watch, she realized, as she glanced to her left and saw a row of men and women lined up against the fence. Even Jian Zhang was there, leaning on the fence, smoking a pipe and watching her. She fixed her eyes on Changchang’s head, and nudged her into a walk. She could only hope that the people in the Xuanwu ward would be smart enough to keep their hands and fingers away from Changchang’s teeth.

The Autumn Moon Inn was easy to find. She made her way back to the racetrack, where people tugged on each other’s sleeves and pointed at the Niuqu mare, and the girl on her back, and when she asked, a boy who looked like a miniature Bao Zhang pointed her down a side street without a word. The inn was smallish, smokey, the front door open and a handmade sign hanging from the precarious second floor, and when a maid stuck her head out to see who was riding a horse down an alley, Lan Fan asked in a quiet voice if they could please send out Xiaoqing because she wasn’t sure if she trusted the horse enough to be tied and left alone. The maid took a look at the blood on Changchang’s nose, paled, and ducked back inside as Lan Fan whispered to Changchang, stroking her tacky shoulder, muttering in northwestern Xingese and in Saatii alike. She wasn’t sure where one language began and where the other ended anymore, even in her head. The thought made her heart clench.

Xiaoqing was covered in flour and wiping her hands on a dirty apron when she came out, and when she recognized the horse, her eyes flickered. “Mistress Ma,” she said, and hesitated before reaching to Changchang. Either the mare was too tired to fight, or she recognized Xiaoqing somehow, because there was no flash of teeth, no laid-back ears. Changchang just let out an enormous sigh, like the world was finally making sense again. Lan Fan didn’t dismount. For one thing, she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her, and for another, she didn’t trust Changchang to let her mount again if she did. “How is Peizhi?”

“Recovering.” Lan Fan unwound the reins from her human hand, and refused to look at the rope burns. “Awake and talking. He’ll be all right in a few days.”

She melted. Xiaoqing dropped onto the nearest seat—a bench near the door of the inn—and put a hand to her heart, closing her eyes, breathing deep. She mumbled something in Qarashi that might have been _thank the gods_. “Thank you, mistress,” she said. “Thank you.”

Lan Fan shifted on Changchang’s back, uncomfortably. She didn’t like so many people thanking her, not like this. It made her feel like…like people thought she was more than she was. Like they thought she was better than she knew herself to be. “Don’t,” she said. “Please. I wanted to ask you who I should turn the horse over to; I can keep her as long as necessary, but she’s….difficult.”

“Uncontrollable,” said Xiaoqing, and Lan Fan grimaced. “Peizhi kept her at the district stables. He worked there to keep her fed and in a stall. When the stablemaster saw that he could go into her stall without her attacking, he hired Peizhi to be the Niuqu race jockey.” She hesitated, then stood, and put a hand on Changchang’s jaw. The mare didn’t move. “You rode her ragged, didn’t you?”

“If I hadn’t, she would have tried to kill me.” Lan Fan flexed her automail fingers, and thought. Changchang wasn’t well fed nor well-tended; she had cuts and bites and marks from a crop, a wicked scar along her foreleg as though she’d once been slashed, scrapes on her belly. She shifted her hips, and Changchang twitched. Now that her heart wasn’t thundering in her ears, there was a stubborn ache setting in in the base of her spine. “What happened to the Yuan horse from Shiqu?”

“Horsemeat, so far as I know. They killed her on the track.”

Lan Fan frowned. She picked at the tear in her jacket sleeve. Changchang’s teeth hadn’t left a mark on the automail; it was smooth and grey as ever. “Would the Niuqu stablemaster do the same?”

“This was Changchang’s year. She’s basically unridable; if she didn’t win, they were going to kill her. Peizhi told me.”

Lan Fan thought of the marks on Changchang’s sides, the clip on her ear that hadn’t come from a sword. “Fine,” she said, and wrapped her hands up in reins again. “I’ll take her back. Do you want to see him?”

Xiaoqing blinked. Then she shook her head. “I can’t. My shift—it’s not done for hours, not until nearly midnight, and I don’t have any time off until the weekend.” She glanced at Lan Fan, and then looked just as quickly away again, as though she’d seen something that frightened her. “Please, I…I can come then? I would like to…I want to see that he’s all right. I want to see him.”

“I’ll come collect you that morning, then,” said Lan Fan, and gave her an awkward bow. “And I will send you news of his recovery as it comes. You can read?”

“Qarashi and Xingese. My father taught me,” she added, a hint of pride in her voice.  

“I’ll send you doves, then.” She turned Changchang in a tight circle. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

Xiaoqing nodded. When Lan Fan turned Changchang at the corner, the woman was still standing on the steps of the inn, watching them.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ll need to do that again, you know.”

It was Jian Zhang. Lan Fan dropped the dirty sponge back into the bucket, ignoring the ache in her hips, the twinging in her knees and thighs, and cocked her head at him. She’d spent most of the past hour and a half untangling Changchang’s mane, cutting most of the hair off her tail (that had been an adventure; she was going to have some impressive bruises sooner or later), and wiping her clean of dust, blood, and grime. It wasn’t much, and frankly she doubted it would do much to keep the mare from rushing at the horseboys whenever they came near, but at the same time it made her feel better to see Changchang clean. She wasn’t that old, Lan Fan realized, maybe eight or nine, a lovely grey so pale that she could have been white if it hadn’t been for her eyes, and so pure that when Changchang wasn’t covered in dirt and sweat and blood, Lan Fan could barely make out the scars.

Jian Zhang blew out smoke, and stuck his pipe back between his teeth. Lan Fan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That horse’s been whipped,” he said, and unconsciously Lan Fan ran her fingers over one of the thin scars on Changchang’s back. “Her ears have been clipped. She’s been cut by something. I’ve seen warhorses come through four-day battles that look better than that one does, and she can’t be more than eight or nine. Whoever had her last has been squeezing the life out of her like a sponge, and smacked her around more than once when she wouldn’t do as told. Whatever spirit the army bred her for, it’s twisted and gone sour. Nothing in her but mean, now. You’ll fight with her every time you get up on her back, horse-wife or no.”

Her eyes narrowed. Lan Fan seized the sponge out of the bucket again, and smoothed it over Changchang’s cheek, over her nose. The mare snorted and jerked her head away, but Lan Fan seized her by the forelock and dragged her back down. Jian Zhang chewed on his pipe, watching her. Finally, when she’d cleaned Changchang’s nose as best she could, she collected the water bucket, and looked at him.

“If I have to fight her, I’ll fight her. She’s been misused. That’s no reason to misuse her again.”

Jian Zhang watched her for a bit. Then his mouth quirked. “It’ll take a while.”

“I’m here for a while.” She left the stall, rammed the lock home, and glanced back at Changchang one more time. The mare was watching her, shaking herself all over, as though she was ridding herself of Lan Fan’s touch. Lan Fan dumped the dirty water in the grass outside, and hung the bucket where she’d found it, amidst half a dozen others. Jian Zhang was still following her. “I don’t want her cut up for horsemeat.”

“You might be fighting a losing battle there.”

She thought of Changchang lunging forward, thought of her digging her teeth into another horse’s ear, nearly tearing it in half. “I don’t care.”

“Fine,” said Jian Zhang. “Come back tomorrow morning at dawn. We’ll work on her then.”

Then he bowed to someone behind her, and walked away. Lan Fan turned around.

She nearly choked on her tongue.

The Emperor—and his entourage of nearly fifteen nobles—was standing right behind her, his hands tucked into his sleeves, watching her. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t seen him up close since she’d been introduced to the court, and that had been weeks ago; she nearly let her _qi_ loose, nearly ran her eyes over him to check for injuries, and then she caught herself. She bowed sharply at the waist. “Imperial Majesty.”

“Lady Ma.” Lan Fan straightened, and wished she hadn’t. The Minister of the Left was giving her a look as though he’d like to skin her alive. Her nails were crusted with horse hair, her clothes were dusty and stiff with sweat, her hair had fallen out of tight knot sometime when she’d been fighting to stay on Changchang’s back, and she was absolutely certain she had dirt on her face. If he noticed, the Emperor didn’t say anything. “You seem quite busy this afternoon.”

She groped for words. “I’ve…there is a horse here who needs a great amount of attention, majesty.”

“Not one of my horses, I hope?” said the Emperor, and Lan Fan made herself shake her head.

“No. A warhorse I came across recently. She is having…difficulties.”

“Adjusting?”

“Keeping her teeth to herself,” said Lan Fan, and then bit her cheek to keep herself from chattering. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. The Emperor laughed, quick and sharp, and she realized that in that way, at least, Shan Yao and Master Ling were precisely the same. Something inside her ached.

“What about you, Lady Ma? Have you had difficulties adjusting to my court? You caused quite a splash when you first arrived, but since then I haven’t heard much of your doings. Any troubles in particular?”

“None, Imperial Highness. I thank you for your concern.” She chanced a glance up at his face. His eyes were crinkling up in a smile that was actually real, and even if his hands were hidden away in his sleeves, she could read him like a book. He was genuinely happy to see her. Lan Fan felt flush with pleasure, and wiped some of the dirt from her cheek with the back of her hand. “It’s very…different here.”

“Considering the state of the northwestern plains, it would have to be. I don’t think many of the people here would be cut out for living in tents and hunting for their own food.” He glanced over her shoulder into the stable. “Did I hear Jian Zhang correctly? He said he was going to assist you with this problem horse?”

“He told me to show up at dawn tomorrow, but not much else.” If that was Jian Zhang’s way of offering help, though, she’d take it. Rough and honest over court wiles any day. “It will take more than a few days to help Changchang, but if Master Zhang has offered his assistance, I will gladly take it.”

“Changchang?”

For some reason, Lan Fan blushed a little. “The mare’s name, highness. Her name is Changchang.”

“I see.” He mused for a moment. “If my Master of the Horse has decided to help you, this warhorse must be quite the animal. You will show her to me, tomorrow, if you like. You seem a bit too ragged to do so now.”

Shen Liu turned red. “Highness, I’m afraid that there is a council session all day tomorrow, there’s no way—”

“Clear the morning, then,” said the Emperor. “We can’t possibly be stuck in a meeting _all_ day, not about the equinox festivals. Besides, you’re the one who’s been saying I need to—how did you put it, Minister? Explore the palace more often.”

“But Imperial Highness—”

“I’ve made my decision, Minister,” said Master Ling in a quiet voice, and Shen Liu shut his mouth. The Emperor looked back at Lan Fan. “After all, I haven’t discussed the state of the northwest with our court’s newest lady, and it would be...inexcusable of me to keep putting it off any longer.”

Lan Fan glanced at Shen Liu, who looked about ready to start spitting sparks, and then clasped her hand to her heart and bowed her head. “As you wish, Imperial Highness.”  

“I’ll meet you and Master Zhang here at dawn tomorrow, then, shall I?” he said, and smiled. “Any advice for me, Lady Ma? It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to go riding, and I don’t think I’ve ever had the honor of being on horseback alongside one of the Ma.”

Lan Fan blushed again. She couldn’t help it. “I am not nearly the rider my cousin is, highness, but I am honored that you say so.” She met his eyes again. “As for advice, highness, I’m not sure what to tell you, other than dress appropriately and wear good shoes.”

“No flowing robes, then,” he said, and lifted his eyebrows. She was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream. This was always what he’d done—when she’d been trailing him to his tutoring sessions, or sitting behind him as he back-talked his mother, or training with him before Grandfather, he’d always tried to make her laugh. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Trousers would be best,” she agreed, as gravely as she could. “The more fabric the rider wears, the more chances he carries with him that the horse will startle.”

“So no flowing robes,” the Emperor said again, and Lan Fan couldn’t help it. She smiled, and hid it behind her hand to keep Shen Liu from having an apoplectic fit. It might have been too late for that, though; when she shot him a sideways glance, he had just about turned purple with fury. _Good,_ she thought. _Have a little frustration, Master Minister._

“No, highness.”

“Duly noted. I’ll dress as dourly as possible and see you at dawn.” He nodded briskly, and offered his left hand, the one with the imperial seal on his first finger. Lan Fan cupped the air beneath his hand—even Feiyan Ma would have known that much—and went on one knee before him. “Be well, Lady Feiyan Ma.”

Lan Fan licked her lips, and kept her eyes on the ground. “Stars’ blessings to you, Imperial Highness.”

Master Ling paused for a moment, as if waiting for something. Then the sleeve of his robes brushed over her head as he turned, and walked away. It could have been an accident. It was more of a touch than she was ever going to get.

Lan Fan stood, and stared at the sky for a long time.

 

 

* * *

 

“There,” said Niu Lu, and pulled back, with a satisfied look on her face that reminded Lan Fan of a contented cat. “This one is certain that things will go well for you tonight, my lady.”

“Thank you,” Lan Fan said, and then blinked at her reflection. She hated the court paint that had to be slathered on her face for events, but she thought she might hate this…foreign stuff even more. Niu Lu had said it was Drachman, and Lan Fan had seen similar pots and paints in Amestris, too, in the few times she’d had a chance to wander, but she had never imagined it on herself. It was too close around her eyes, too chalky on her lips. She looked like a distorted mirror image of herself, someone with longer lashes and darker eyes, sharper cheeks and redder lips. She felt like a clown.

Peizhi was asleep. He’d spent most of the day sleeping quietly, Niu Lu had informed her—she woke him up every few hours to check on his eyes, but the danger from his head was almost gone. It was the recovery that was going to take a while, now, and until Lan Fan was satisfied with letting him leave the bed, Peizhi wasn’t about to step foot out of her two rooms.

“Niu Lu,” she said, and Niu Lu looked up from where she’d been fussing over the paint pots. Lan Fan pulled her legs up against her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She didn’t have the sort of clothes that fit the dress code of a “modern” party, and judging by what Mei Chang had been wearing at the Dowager Empress’s birthday party, nor did most of the court. She still had to meet Lien Hua Feng in their Sprout Garden rooms, though, so she could only hope that something would come of that. “You don’t have to keep talking like that, you know.”

Niu Lu frowned, just a little, and tucked a curly red strand of hair behind her ear. “This one does not understand.”

“I’m not a—I’m not a noble,” said Lan Fan, shifting uncomfortably. _This isn’t like Master Ling speaking with me. He’s the Emperor; people need to speak to him as they do. I’m…not anyone of particular consequence._ “You don’t have to keep talking so formally.”

“This one is your servant, Lady Ma,” said Niu Lu.

“But I’m not a noble,” Lan Fan said again. “And I don’t like it. You heard what I said to the Emperor when I was introduced. Formality is…hard.” She licked her lips, and met Niu Lu’s eyes. “I won’t order you to stop, but I’d…like it if you did. You’re as much of a person as me, after all.”

Niu Lu digested that for a moment, and then went back to fidgeting with the little makeup pots. Lan Fan glanced at her reflection one last time—she hoped the lipstick wouldn’t come off on her teeth—and then eased herself to her feet. When she’d finally extracted herself from the cold tubs that afternoon, there had been dark bruises all up and down the insides of her thighs, and a little scratch on her automail from Changchang’s teeth. The raw skin on her hand had been covered with intricately woven bandages, both artful and useful. _If the whole of the court could be that way_ , she thought, studying the weave, _then we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place._

“Where did you learn to use Drachman paints, Niu Lu?”

“In Drachma,” Niu Lu said, and snapped the makeup case shut. “This one lived there for several years, Lady Ma. This one—my father was Drachman.”

Lan Fan peeked up at Niu Lu through her bangs. Niu Lu wasn’t looking at her; she put the makeup case back into one of the dresser drawers and began to fuss with the layering of the sleeping robes. “My father was Drachman and my mother was the ambassador’s daughter, and when they married, they decided to stay in Drachma. I spent my first fifteen years there, before my father died and my mother brought be back to Xing.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Lan Fan carefully, and Niu Lu shut the dresser.

“You would not, lady, considering it’s old gossip.” She smiled. “I’m nearly thirty-four, now, so it’s at least fifteen years old. Besides, my mother died a few years after we came back to court, so since then I’ve been a quiet anomaly.”

“I see.”

Niu Lu shook her hair back. “With Drachman makeup, you’ll be suitably modern but just as suitably mysterious, Lady Ma. The others will be wearing either Amestrian paints or concocted something for themselves out of what’s available in Xing, and it doesn’t have the same sparkle. See, here—” She reached forward, cupping Lan Fan’s face in one hand, and turned Lan Fan towards the mirror. “The black I put around your eyes is called _lidschatten_ in Drachman. I think in Xing you might call it eye-shadowing? Something like that. They add bits of mica to it, you see? Blink slowly.” Lan Fan complied. “It’s like stars in a black night. Can you see it?”

“Yes.” Niu Lu pulled away, and Lan Fan looked up at her again. There was a question on her lips that she wasn’t quite sure how to say. “Niu Lu, how—?”

“As a woman of the plains, Lady Ma, you know that strength is critical. You don’t survive if you can’t fight.” Niu Lu glanced at Lan Fan’s reflection, and Lan Fan looked too. They seemed so strange, side by side—Niu Lu with her green-brown eyes and vivid curls, Lan Fan with her smoky makeup and her confused look. “But at court, we don’t solve our battles through war. We fight with our looks, our words, our minds. You see? Being different can give you power, if you use it correctly.”

Lan Fan nodded, slowly.   

Niu Lu continued. “You already know that a warrior must use all tools that may come to hand. Why should a woman’s face by any different? It’s just as much a part of you as your hands or your legs or your knives. Instead of hiding it, it should be used. It can be more powerful than you realize.”

Lan Fan stared at her distorted reflection in the mirror, and wondered. Niu Lu squeezed her shoulders, and then straightened. “It’s nearly sunset, Lady Ma. I shall take you to the Sprout Gardens, to see Lady Feng and her brothers. Is there anything else you wish from me?”

“It’s all right, I can get a guard to lead me there. Will you watch Peizhi for me until I get back?”

Niu Lu glanced back at the bed, where Peizhi still slept. “Yes, lady.”

Lan Fan offered Niu Lu a small smile, and then grabbed her long coat, shoved her feet back into her _gutul_ , settled her _qi_ , and left to find her way to the Sprout Garden.

She hailed a guard at the entrance to the Western Wing. She knew where the Sprout Garden _was_ —she’d been through it too many times to not remember—but at the same time, if she showed up looking like she knew where she was going, the Fengs might be suspicious. So when she finally knocked on the carved wood door, the guard was still waiting quietly by her shoulder. A woman wearing Feng green robes embroidered with pheasants opened the door, and frowned at her. “Can this one be of service, lady?”

“I’m here to see Lady Feng,” said Lan Fan, and in the room, the chatter of Dong Mao and Xinzhe fell abruptly silent. “If she’s here.”

The woman almost sniffed. She caught herself just in time. “This one will see if the Lady Feng is available.”

“Let Ma in, Ning.” It was Xinzhe. He leaned back, grinning lazily at Lan Fan through the gap between Ning’s sleeve and her robes. “My sister’s expecting her.”

Ning looked as though she’d swallowed a toad, but she stepped aside and bowed. Lan Fan nodded a thank-you to the guard, stepped into the entryway of the Fengs’ rooms, and slipped off her shoes, feeling strangely vulnerable in bare feet in front of Xinzhe and Dong Mao Feng. They were playing cards. Dong Mao seemed to be losing, judging by the piles of buttons on the table. Both of them, she realized, were dressed in Amestrian clothes; suits, ties, western socks. She shifted, uncomfortably.

“Lien Hua will be out in a minute, she’s primping.” Xinzhe checked his hand again, laid down a few cards, and took a few more buttons from the pile in the center of the table. “How’s your horse jockey?”

“Better. Resting.” She stood by the wall, hands behind her back, waiting. “What are you playing?”

“Snuff. I’ll teach you if you want.” Xinzhe jerked his head at her, and scooted to the side. “Sit and watch.”

Dong Mao looked grumbly at that. He laid down a few cards. Xinzhe put down a few more, and Dong Mao swore, shoving five of his buttons into the center of the table. Lan Fan hesitated, and then dropped down onto the mats beside Xinzhe Feng. The Fengs had decorated the room to their own tastes, she thought; she didn’t recognize half of the things that were in these rooms, and this was only the main room. There were two doors leading off on the eastern side, one on the western, and a third door, this one a traditional screen, which led into the gardens. That one was half open, and she could see a fountain burbling near the wooden walk. A few wall scrolls embossed with the symbol of the Feng—a pheasant in flight—had been hung from the walls. Books filled the case near the door. There were no desks, and no papers. Lan Fan flicked her eyes back to the game just in time to see Dong Mao win a few of his buttons back.

“What’s the point?” she said. Dong Mao glanced up at her over his cards. He shared Lien Hua and Xinzhe’s face, almost exactly, but there was something about him that seemed rougher, sloppier, as though he’d been painted in darker, thicker ink, and by a less cautious hand.

“To win, of course.”

“You’re being too simplistic, brother.” Xinzhe laid down a few more cards, and gave up a few of his buttons. “The point is to have the most amount of buttons by the end of the game. Every hand you put down one pair of cards; if you don’t, you give up five buttons, no objections. You can gain or lose buttons by making certain card patterns. You can guess those, if you watch close enough. Games last twelve hands.”

Lan Fan nodded, glanced once at the screens to the gardens again, and then focused on the game.

Xinzhe won in three more hands. She was starting to get the idea—pairs like Maiden and Squire, or Empress and Emperor, would win cards, but only if they were of alternating colors, while pairs of the same color would win you fewer buttons and cards that didn’t match at all would lose you buttons—when the door on the western side of the room opened. Lien Hua poked her head out. She looked, Lan Fan thought, like a painting. Her eyes were outlined in kohl that someone enterprising soul had managed to turn green, and she’d used an alkahestrical comb to put streaks of color in her long dark hair. The strip of white by her face had been curled and left to hang, bold and bright. “There you are, horse-wife,” said Lien Hua. “Get in here.”

Lan Fan glanced at Xinzhe and Dong Mao. Neither of them met her eyes. She pushed herself to her feet, and followed Lien Hua into the side room.

There was a maid, standing in the corner, probably sixteen or seventeen; she had at least three knives hidden on her, creasing her robes, and Lan Fan was careful to stay on Lien Hua’s other side, so she wasn’t in easy reach. This room was smaller, but the door into the garden was wider, and there were more books. Some of them were novels. Most of them were treatises—medical, historical, astronomical, alkahestrical. Lien Hua caught Lan Fan looking, and said, “Surprised? I read more than you think.”

“I haven’t thought about how much you read, to be honest,” said Lan Fan, and Lien Hua grinned, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle out of her skirt. Her dress was almost sharply exotic; a brilliant emerald with beads sewn into the skirt in a dragon pattern, and very thin straps over her pale shoulders. There was a pair of high green heels tossed carelessly by the bedroom door. Lien Hua, Lan Fan thought, looked as though she was about to sashay into an Amestrian club and win at every poker table.

“I’ll give you some books if you want to read them. You should educate yourself, since you’re so far out of Ma territory.”

Lan Fan bristled. “I was educated.”

“Can you tell me what stars are made of?” Lien Hua didn’t wait for an answer. “Or draw a map of all the known Dragon’s Pulse Points? Can you understand the math that goes into building a palace like this one? Until you can, you’re not educated in the slightest.” She gave Lan Fan a pitying look. “Of course, by that standard, no one in this damn palace is, not even my brothers. Xinzhe’s all right, but Dong Mao’s hopeless.” She flicked her gaze to Lan Fan’s face, eyes narrowing a bit. “Someone did your face up nice.”

Lan Fan shrugged. Lien Hua sniffed, and jerked her head at the maid. “You’re about my size. Show me your foot.”

Lan Fan stuck her foot out. Lien Hua studied it, looking thoughtful, and when Lan Fan looked down, she blinked. Lien Hua’s feet weren’t bound. Lan Fan almost stared, before she caught herself. Whatever else the Feng family might be doing, the fact that it hadn’t bound the feet of its only female imperial put a mark in their favor. The maid opened the stand-alone cabinet, and began to sort through it. Lien Hua cut a look Lan Fan’s way. “What’s your color?”

“The Ma? Ruby.”

“Good. I like red, and it’ll fit well with your mouth.” Lien Hua put a thumb up to Lan Fan’s cheek, almost as though she was testing the quality of the face paint. “Do you want hair streaks? I have a few different combs, and gold would look good in your hair.”

“I don’t think—”

“Chicken, horse-wife?” Then Lien Hua paused. “You go stiff every time I call you that. Why? It’s what you are.”

Lan Fan kept her voice as level as she could. “It’s an insult and I don’t like it.”

“What else am I supposed to call you, then?” Lien Hua said, cocking her head curiously. She looked honestly confused, as though the fact that horse-wife was an insult had actually never occurred to her, and Lan Fan hesitated.

“Ma is fine.”

Lien Hua made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “Ma is boring. How do you write your name?”

Lan Fan told her, and Lien Hua wrinkled her nose. “Swallow, then, I suppose,” she said. “Though you’re nothing like a swallow. They jump and chirp and twitter about everything, and you just sit there with your huge eyes and look as though you’re thinking very hard about something. Come on, swallow-girl. Let’s get you dressed.”

It took an hour. Lan Fan was fine with the first dress that she’d been required to model—after all, clothes were all the same, once you really thought about it—but Lien Hua and the maid bickered amongst themselves about shades and lengths and neckline patterns until Lan Fan went dizzy. Lien Hua attacked her with an alkahestry comb while Lan Fan was struggling to stick her feet into the ridiculous heeled shoes that Lien Hua pulled out of her closet. “I know a tailor in Bianjiehu who gets all the latest fashions from Amestris, and he gives them to me half-price,” was Lien Hua’s explanation, and put two gold streaks in Lan Fan’s hair, one towards the back, one near her face. They sparkled in the dim light. “Since Feng-guo is on the ocean, we get a lot of foreign types in. I can get anything from willowbright to python skin, if I ask the right questions.”

“Why are you doing all this for me?” Lan Fan asked, as Lien Hua ran the comb down one of her golden stripes one more time, enhancing the color. They’d finally picked a dress. She was going to have to wear stockings with it. Lan Fan eyed them warily. She’d never worn stockings in her life.

“Because you’re arriving with me, and if you’re arriving with me, there are certain expectations,” said Lien Hua. “Besides, think of what people will see when you walk in. You don’t look like a horse-wife anymore, swallow-girl.” She pulled Lan Fan up out of the chair, and pushed her towards the maid, Wen. “Get changed. I’m going to go nag the boys.”

When it was done, Lan Fan stood in front of the mirror, and fidgeted. The dress was nearly crimson, just a shade or two darker, with a wide-pleated skirt that draped and fluttered and ended just below her knees. Wen had called the neckline a scoop, and it dipped down scandalously low; it had taken every power of persuasion Lan Fan possessed to keep Lien Hua from having her skin painted with patterns in gold, the way Lien Hua had covered her chest with vines the night of the Dowager Empress’s birthday party. It only just barely covered her scars. The sleeves hid where girl met machine, but her automail arm looked ludicrously awkward in such a gorgeous, foreign thing. The stockings itched against her legs, and she’d managed to wrangle one of the few pairs of flats that Lien Hua owned; the heels would have been impossible for her to maneuver in, considering the height of some of them. She’d tried to push for one of the long-sleeved dresses (of which there were half a dozen) but Lien Hua had simply put a finger to the side of her nose and said “Waste not, want not” in a very ominous tone of voice. They’d even put her hair up, curling it with another alkahestrical comb and pinning it high enough to let it fall. It wasn’t as long as Lien Hua’s, but it was long enough to tickle her shoulder-blades, and she shook her head, irritated. There was a shawl to go with it, an even darker shade of red embroidered with gold, and she swung that around her shoulders and clung to the hems with her human fingers. Lan Fan stared at the gold streaks in her hair, and let out a short, shaky breath.

She wasn’t alone. Wen was still there, watching her as she cleaned up the mess that Lien Hua had left behind. No chance to snoop, then. There was a small lap-desk on the bed, with two lockable drawers, not to mention a few notebooks left on the _actual_ desk near the garden doors. Lien Hua had hung a map of Xing up on her door. There were no obvious marks, no pins, but it looked well used, and when Lan Fan took a chance to peer at it before leaving Lien Hua’s room, she could see little marks in the paper where pins used to be.

She left the bedroom before Wen noticed her peering. Their maids were armed, she thought, and there were alkahestry braids in Ning’s hair. It was something to keep in mind.

Xinzhe and Dong Mao had cleared up their game of snuff—that, or Ning had cleared it up while they weren’t looking—and Lien Hua was fixing Dong Mao’s (Feng green) tie when Lan Fan finally came out. Seeing all three of them together was always startling, she thought—like seeing a photograph reflected in a pair of mirrors. Lien Hua glanced over at her, and a slow, satisfied smile curled at her mouth. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Look at you, swallow-girl.”

Xinzhe grinned, lazily. “Can I escort you somewhere private, lady?”

“Stop,” Lan Fan said, and tightened her grip on the shawl. “I’ll walk alone, thank you.”

“And leave me with my brothers on either side? No. You’ll go with Dong Mao, and I’ll take Xinzhe. We’re meeting Chen on the way; you can fight it out amongst yourselves once we collect him.” Lien Hua picked up her shoes. “Leave your clothes here, swallow-girl. I’ll have them sent over to your rooms tomorrow morning, if you’re not still with us by then.”

Lan Fan glanced back at her _gutul_. She hadn’t concealed anything in her clothes—in fact, she’d been very careful not to—but it still made her uneasy, leaving her things in the rooms of the Feng.  Then she nodded. “Which wing are we going to?”

“You think that Mei Chang is going to have a party like this in the palace?” Lien Hua patted Lan Fan’s cheek. “We’re going down to the Chang house in Zhuque. And if we don’t leave soon, we’re going to be late.”

It was already dark. Technically, they _were_ late. Lan Fan held her tongue. She’d had enough of feeling like an idiot for one night.

The Chang house was in the Gui District of the Zhuque Ward, where the noble families held their Ghost Festival every year at the winter solstice. The Chang had hung lanterns all up and down the street, in hues of pink and silver, and the house itself was blazing with light. She could hear music coming from the open windows. Since Princess Chang had taken over as head of the family, Lan Fan realized, the place had been repaired—there were no longer holes in the gate, the roof tiles had been replaced, and a new garden had been planted, not to mention that all the windows had been inlaid with glass. “I had heard that the Changs were more destitute than this,” said Xinzhe, and helped Lien Hua out of the carriage. Dong Mao had deposited Lan Fan on Mingli Chen as soon as they’d collected him at the Bamboo Shoot Gardens, and had sulked in the corner of the carriage the whole ride through the Zhuque Ward. She wondered if his sullen silence was a personality trait or something that happened around her; either way, it meant he probably wasn’t going to give anything away to her anytime soon.

The carriage passed the Chang house. Lan Fan watched it go, and then turned to Lien Hua, but Lien Hua had put a finger to her lips. “We’re going through the back,” said Xinzhe, as the carriage turned right, following the wall of the Chang property. “A friend of ours is going to let us in as soon as we find the back door.”

Lan Fan bit her tongue. “Really?”

“Told you we were sneaking in,” said Xinzhe. “Not up for it?”

She scowled. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Feng.”

“Snarly.” XInzhe gave her a mocking smile again. “See how that changes when you get some drink in you, horse-wife.”

“I don’t drink,” Lan Fan said, but Lien Hua and Xinzhe just laughed, giving each other significant looks. Mingli shifted uncomfortably, and when the carriage stopped, he was the first one out the door. “Not typically.”

“This party will be interesting then,” said Lien Hua, and Lan Fan abruptly wished that she’d brought at least one knife with her. Her automail had a few hidden blades, but they were typically her last resort; even though she’d had her arm for more than four years, now, she still didn’t always feel confident using it. Not as a weapon, at least.

The back of the Chang house was surprisingly clean. The walls were made of clean white granite, freshly washed, and when Lan Fan disembarked, she could smell freshly crushed jasmine petals. She stifled a sneeze behind her hand as Lien Hua stepped off, and said, “This way.”

The little door was probably half Lan Fan’s height, and when Xinzhe knocked on it—two knocks in quick succession, then three in slow—it opened. A boy Lan Fan didn’t know with a mole on the side of his nose glanced up at the five of them, and then scooted back. Xinzhe crawled through first.

“Don’t tear my tights,” Lien Hua warned, and then she bent down and scrambled through as well. Dong Mao stepped back, and gestured Lan Fan forward, grinning a little.

“You first, _Lady_.”

He said it like a curse. Lan Fan scowled at him, and then crouched down, holding her skirt closed, and crawled through. Lien Hua and Xinzhe were chatting easily with the boy with the mole, who was watching Lien Hua’s chest move as she breathed, and only randomly answered their questions. He had Zheng ears. Lien Hua turned, and held out her arm, and Lan Fan didn’t hesitate; she tucked her hand through Lien Hua’s elbow. “And this is Feiyan Ma, _my_ companion for the evening.”

“The horse-wife?” the Zheng boy blurted, and then flushed deep red when Lan Fan turned her eyes on him. He scuffed his nice shoes along the gravel. “My apologies, Lady Ma.”

“Accepted,” she said, and turned to Lien Hua. “Shouldn’t we get to the party? Everyone’s through.”

“Shut the door and let’s go,” Lien Hua said to Mingli, and Mingli snapped to. Lan Fan wondered if she could pull away from Lien Hua’s arm without offending her, and then decided against it. She could talk with someone sane later. Now was the time for work.

The Zheng boy had to have been here before. He knew the servants’ pathways like the back of his hand. Lan Fan ducked her head as they passed by maids, footmen, a few cook’s assistants, even some horseboys as Zheng turned down different hallways, led them up a short set of stairs, and finally opened a door into a room that was flickering with lights and movement and music. Lan Fan blinked. She’d heard this music once or twice in Amestris, passing bars or dance halls in the lower parts of town, but not since then. “What kind of music is this? It’s…different.”

“My friends in Bianjiehu call it ragtime. Say it’s something new from Aerugo. But I don’t like the name, so I just call it jump music.” She frowned. “It’s not quite right, but I’ll come up with a new name for it later. C’mon.”

And with that, she tightened her grip on Lan Fan’s arm, and pulled her into the main hall.

Dark. Warm. Pulsing. It felt as though she was tapping into the Dragon’s Pulse, but there was nothing pure or natural about it. It was just surging human energy, bursts of heat and breath and music that were making her palms sweat. _Why is it_ , she said, _that every time I go somewhere with the Fengs, I end up in a place that’s too noisy to hear anyone speak?_

She remembered. Lan Fan leaned closer to Lien Hua Feng. “ _I’m sorry I left all of you at the racetrack._ ”

Lien Hua turned to her and smiled her acid smile. “ _Apology not accepted. Come on. We’re too close to the band here, and I don’t want Mei Chang to see us quite yet._ ”

She seized Lan Fan by the hand—her flesh hand, Lan Fan couldn’t help but notice—and dragged her forward into the crowd. When Lan Fan turned around, she could see the musicians—white men from Aerugo or Amestris, plucking on instruments she’d never seen before, the microphones new and shiny—and then they were in the crush of the crowd, and she could barely breathe. If this was the sort of party that was supposed to be small and daring and _modern_ , she was done with modern.

She didn’t know the dance steps. Neither did anyone else. People spun and twirled and linked hands, sashaying back and forth. Lien Hua danced with her for a while before being swept away by a boy that Lan Fan vaguely recognized from court, and Lan Fan was left to stand alone. One of the Yuan, with a tipped cap and a loosened tie, spun her around the floor for a while before Lan Fan finally disengaged herself and wandered the edges of the room. There were couples kissing, smoking, talking, each of them in their own corner, and suddenly through a shining gap in the room Lan Fan spotted Mei Chang and Alphonse Elric, speaking softly, sitting together on a couch. Princess Chang had left her hair down, completely unbraided, and her long dress was slinky and black with vivid pink butterflies embroidered along the fabric of the skirt. The two of them looked exceptionally alone, their _qi_ rippling but settled, as if no other person existed for either of them, and her eyes widened. _When did that happen_? Then the gap closed up again, and she was alone.

If the party had been at the palace, she could have snuck away at any point to go and test the guards at the Feng rooms. If she had been Lan Fan Huo, instead of Feiyan Ma, she wouldn’t have been here at all. Her feet hurt, her legs ached even after the ice bath, and when she looked down at her bandaged right hand, she realized it was clenched into a fist. _Find one of the Fengs_ , she told herself, and turned back towards the crowd. Her _qi_ was pushing at its limits, struggling to stretch out, and but she bit her tongue and shoved it down. She still didn’t know if any of the Feng could register _qi,_ and if they did and sensed someone they thought had been the Emperor’s Shadow at a party where the Emperor most definitely was _not_ , then they would be suspicious of everything and everyone.

The song changed. Someone handed her a drink that tasted like sharp glass. Lan Fan took a sip, made a face, and decided to not take another. Not too far away, she saw Mingli Chen talking with Xinzhe Feng, and started to make her way towards them, but when she finally fought her way through the crowd to where they’d been, they’d gone. She swore viciously under her breath, and slammed the drink down onto the nearest table before dropping onto the couch and pulling off her shawl. Damn her arm. It was too hot in here for her stupid girlish vanity.

“Can I help you?”

She knew that voice. Lan Fan looked up. Alphonse Elric was standing there, looking startlingly blonde in the dim lighting, his eyes—not quite as golden as his brothers, but with veins of it nonetheless—flicking from her arm to her eyes. She could see a smile hidden away somewhere in his face, and Lan Fan couldn’t help it. She relaxed. “Your Xingese is good,” she said, and he took the spot next to her, lounging a little. Unlike most of the Xing boys, he wasn’t wearing a suit, just a dress shirt and loose trousers in a subtle shade of brown. Nor did he have a tie; his shirt was open at the throat, the top two buttons undone. “I didn’t expect that.”

“I’ve had good teachers,” he said, and glanced at her. “Alone at this party?”

“Not really, but the people I came with have all vanished.” She rubbed the connection between her metal arm and her shoulder; it was aching. There would be rain soon, she thought. That’s what always happened when her shoulder ached like this. “May I ask your name, sir?”

Judging by the way his eyes flickered, he’d been told about her identity, and she wasn’t sure he liked it. Al sat up, and offered his right hand to her, smiling when she blinked at it. “Alphonse Elric.”  

Lan Fan lifted her bandaged hand. “My name is Feiyan Ma. Pleased to meet you,” she added, in intentionally shoddy Amestrian, and laughter danced in Al’s eyes. He took her hand and shook it, and she realized abruptly that they’d never actually shook before. This might be the first time since Al had regained his body that she’d touched him at all.

She let go of his hand, tucked her own into her lap, and stared at the dancers. If she squinted, the boy under the gold-wrapped lanterns might have been Dong Mao, but when he turned, she saw a Liu nose, and ignored him. Al turned back to watch the dancers, too, his eyes flicking back and forth, but when he found Mei Chang, he settled. Lan Fan cocked her head at him. “I heard you are staying with Princess Chang until you return to…Amestris?”

“Yes, I’m Amestrian.” He smiled. “And yes. Mei—Princess Chang is my alkahestry teacher.”

“You are learning alkahestry?”

“Mm.” He drew a breath, let it out, and said, “I’d show off, but I don’t have any chalk. Besides, I dunno how people like party tricks in Xing. I’ve never been to a party here before.”

“I’ve come to visit family from the northwestern steppes, so I’m afraid I can’t answer you.”

Mei Chang turned. Her face flickered a little when she saw Al sitting with Lan Fan—irritation, relief, frustration, confusion. Al caught every one, and stood. “Sorry. I should go back.” He held out his hand again. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Feiyan.”

“Likewise.”

She took his hand. This time, paper crackled between her fingers. Al winked at her, and then tipped a cocky salute, turning away and vanishing into the crowd. Lan Fan tucked the note into her sash to be read later, in private. When she looked up, there they were: Lien Hua, Xinzhe, and Dong Mao, hand in hand, twirling together. Lien Hua was laughing. It was the first time, Lan Fan thought, that she had seen any of them without their court masks. They were startlingly open, terrifyingly vulnerable, and she bit her cheek.

Lan Fan stood, and froze. Sickly, slimy, freezing _qi_ — _qi_ like an eel, like a syringe of poison, like a venomous snake—battered against her barriers. She could have sworn it was saying hello. Light caught off a reflective surface, and Lan Fan was moving before she knew it, pushing her way past dancers and drunkards, because there was a man in a mask behind Xinzhe Feng, and he was carrying a knife.


	8. Garrote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Wheels," from _The Legend of Korra: Season One_ soundtrack.  
>  "Bamboo Forest," from _The House of Flying Daggers_ soundtrack.  
>  "Farewell No. 1," from _The House of Flying Daggers_ soundtrack.
> 
> Garrote is a stupid word. I keep looking at it and thinking it's spelled wrong. 
> 
> There were a few minor mistakes last chapter I had to fix. The Minister that ended up all huffy was not Bao Zhang, but Shen Liu; the Ministers of the Right and Left are irritating and like to mix themselves up in my head.
> 
> Also the Commander's name is Shan Yao, not Shen Yao, but that was just a typo. Sorry.
> 
> More notes at the bottom.

 

**Seven: Garrote**

Lan Fan could remember a time before the capitol, before her grandfather, before anything but grass and wind and warm arms around her at night. She pressed down on her metal wrist, let the hidden compartment slide back, and withdrew the blade she'd hidden there. She had come into the Huo with no training, no ideologies, no goals or dreams, no  _instincts_ , just an old horse, an older blade, and an innate ability to sense  _qi_ that had frightened her grandmother and given her grandfather a reason, an excuse, to train her.

She had never been built for politics or for falsehood. She couldn't tell a lie without blushing like a schoolgirl. Power—over countries, over people, over lives—frightened her. She was still the girl who had come to the capitol with nothing, and would leave again with less. She'd been scrambling for her feet again ever since Master Ling had given her this assignment, clinging to a precipice with no rope in sight. No ideas. No clues. No strategy. She knew battles, not people. Knew knives and bombs and diversions, not conning others out of their secrets.

She knew what she was good at.

Six meters. She shifted up onto the balls of her feet, and weighed the dagger in her hands. Too far for her to run without drawing attention. Too crowded for her to fling the blade, to kill him at a distance. The foreign  _qi_ , what her grandfather had called  _murderous intent_ , weighed heavy against her stomach, pushing down, down, down. The assassin kept his blade low, and she caught glimpses of it through the legs of the crowd as she pushed forward. Short sword. Not curved. Heavy handle. One of the  _hudie shuangdao_ of the Xie. Too heavy for her to risk bare-handed combat against. She circled around a dancing couple, blowing the cigarette smoke out of her eyes. He was less than two meters away from the Feng now, and his half-mask was smooth and pale as an eggshell. A long braid hung down his back, and there was a thin scar over his lip, a sharp line, like a knife cut. She fingered the fabric of her skirt, wishing she'd grabbed her shawl— _a diversion, a shield, a weapon_. A girl next to her was wearing a sash made of thin braided silk. She bumped into her, slit the sash through with a knife, and took it with her, ignoring the sudden squeal from a few feet behind her.

Less than two meters between the Feng and the swordsman now, only a few steps. There were still five or six couples between her and them, still too much space and too many people for her to do much of anything. She seemed to be moving through honey. The assassin was barely breathing. No one had noticed.  _How can no one have noticed?_  She wrapped the silk around her flesh hand, licked her lips.  _Think._

The sword came up, and for one dazzling moment, his hand was clear of the crowds, the blade reflecting the lamplight.

She flung her knife.

She saw it go into his hand, saw the blood. She heard Lien Hua Feng scream as the sword clattered to the ground, as the assassin swore and clutched his hand to his chest. His whole body was torqued towards the nearest window. Lan Fan shoved her way through the last few couples and threw herself at him, her automail arm up, and when he drew a second blade and swung it at her, it only rebounded, hard enough to send vibrations up through her teeth. Around her was chaos. People running. Screaming. The band had stopped playing and next to her, an oil lamp had been smashed. Lan Fan wrapped the silk tie around his wrist, yanking his sword down and to the side. The chilly  _qi_ clawed at her. She forced a smile. "Hello," she said, reckless and stupid, and then she twisted her body, and threw him to the ground, resting a knee against his belly and her automail arm against this throat.

He was taller than she was. Slender. She could feel the muscles under her hands, ropy, purposeful. He'd been trained. His braid was tied with a black ribbon. A scar had bisected one of his earlobes. The other was pierced. It was all she managed to see before she felt his whole body bunch up under her, like a snake, and then he rolled backwards and up onto his feet. Her makeshift rope was still tangled around his wrist, keeping him close; Lan Fan twisted it tighter. "Goodbye," he said back, his voice low and husky; he was smiling.

She caught the flash of  _qi_ from behind her, and at the last possible moment, Lan Fan whipped her body up and around and drove the heel of her foot deep into the belly of the man sneaking up behind her. He went down with a gust of air, his blade clattering against the tiled floor. His mask fell off. She didn't know his face. Then something coasted along her cheek, cold, sharp, and she felt blood well up and run as the first assassin, the one she was tied to, twirled her knife between his gloved and bloody fingers.  _Left-handed_ , she thought.  _Or ambidextrous._ There weren't many in Xing who could claim that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Fengs still standing there, still watching, and she snarled at them. " _Get out of here_!"

They didn't hesitate. The Fengs bolted, and Lan Fan stepped between them and the assassin, unwinding the silk tie, catching it in both hands and holding it out. A weapon was better than a handcuff. He gritted his teeth, scoffing a little.

"I don't want to kill you, little one," he said, and there was a strange sort of throaty accent to his voice that she couldn't quite identify. "But I will if you get in my way."

She bit her tongue. The other man had stood. Xingese. Stockier. His hair was shorter, and his stance was awful.  _Amateur_. She backed up, one step, two, until they were both in her line of sight, and lifted her eyebrows.

"Try it," she said.

There was a single, taut moment of silence. Of waiting. Then it broke. They moved as one, one team, and even if the shorter man was off on his feet, it didn't make the masked one any less dangerous. Lan Fan spun on the balls of her feet, wrapped her silk cord around the short man's neck, and rammed her metal arm down onto his shoulder. She felt it shatter under the weight of her elbow. He screamed. The crowd was clearing, now, the room emptying, and even Mei Chang and Alphonse Elric were gone. In her arms, the short man screamed, and she drew one of his short swords from his belt and slit his throat. Blood sprayed across the masked man's face, and she let the body drop.

She settled into her stance, the sword in front of her, bouncing light on the balls of her feet, and cocked her head in a question. Her silk cord dangled from her automail hand, the green stained through with blood. He was just out of range, staying very still, her knife still braced in front of his face, every inch of him ready to spring.

"Why kill the Fengs?" she said, and the corner of his mouth tilted down.

"Why kill to save them?" he replied, and he began to circle, step by step by step. Lan Fan turned in place, stepping over the body of the fallen man, eyes flicking back and forth. The fallen oil lamp had caught on one of the curtains, casting an eerie, flickering glow over the spattered eggshell mask. She could taste blood in her mouth.

"Because it's right," she said, and he laughed.

"You don't know what's right, little one," he said, and then he lunged. Not for her. For the window.

There was a tremendous crash. Glass sprayed. She hid her eyes. She could taste smoke and oil in the air, feel the flames. She swore under her breath, and ran to the window. In the street, she saw a flicker of him, and grasped wildly for his  _qi_ , but just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished.  _Follow him_ , her mind screamed.  _Check on the Feng_ , her instincts countered. She swore again, louder this time, and then plunged her metal hand into the heart of the fiery curtain, wrenching it from the wall, and rolling it into a ball to smother the flames.

He still had her knife.

Lan Fan kicked the wall, hard. The front of her dress felt tacky, and when she looked down, it was smeared all over blood; the tear in the skirt showed off her thighs when she moved, and she gritted her teeth, bending over the dead assassin. Simple black clothes. There were three more blades on his body, another butterfly sword, a smoke bomb, a pair of emeici. She seized the emeici, rolled her hair up into a bun, and shoved the dull ends through, keeping her bangs up out of her face. He was wearing a medallion of burnished bronze. She turned it over in her hand. One side was embossed with the character for fire. The other side had a phoenix. Lan Fan sniffed it—sage, metal, and opium—and then hung it around her neck and tucked the medallion under the neckline of her dress. It was just long enough to be possible. She would have shoved it into a pocket, but she had none; she could only hope that none of the Feng noticed.

Lan Fan collected her shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and ducked out the door.

Mei Chang's  _qi_ met her instantly. So did Alphonse Elric's. They were waiting by the front door, checking over the stragglers, taking a headcount. The Fengs were nowhere to be seen. Alphonse's eyes widened at the sight of her, smeared in blood, and he said something to Princess Chang in Amestrian—she thought it might have been  _she's here_ , but she was too far away to tell—and came right to her. "Are you all right?" he asked, still in Amestrian, and when she blinked at him, he switched impatiently to Xingese. " _Are you all right_ , Miss Feiyan?"

"My cheek," she said, reaching up to brush her jaw with one hand. "Nowhere else that I can feel."

"No aches, pains, burns?"

"No." She hid her still-smoking automail arm under her shawl.

"Were you hit in the head?"

"No."

"Sit," he said, and put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her onto the nearest bench. She nearly sat in a rosebush before she caught herself. He checked her eyes, then her cheek, and then pulled of her shawl. "You're covered in blood, Miss Feiyan."

"Where are the Fengs?" she asked, and when he didn't respond, she asked again, snarling. "The  _Fengs_. Lien Hua, Xinzhe, Dong Mao. They were here. Where are they?"

"There," said Princess Chang, and pointed. The Fengs were a trio of huddled figures by the gates, Mingli Chen standing next to them. So was the Zheng boy. When Mingli saw her, his lips went thin, and he said something to Lien Hua. She lifted her head, and met Lan Fan's eyes. None of them seemed to be injured. Lan Fan let out a breath, and looked up at Princess Chang again. She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail to keep it out of the way; she had a lot more than Lan Fan remembered. "What are you doing at this party, Lady Ma? I don't remember issuing you an invitation."

"I came with the Fengs."

"Sit still," said Al, and drew an alkahestrical circle around her. His hands were dusty with chalk. She wondered how many people had been injured in the desperate crush of escape. Lan Fan closed her eyes, and felt a flicker of the Pulse as Al drew on the  _qi_ of the earth. Her hair lifted. Her cheek felt hot. So did her arm, she realized; she must have cut herself without noticing. Then, as quick as it had come, he let it go, and when she opened her eyes and ran her fingers over her cheek, the skin was smooth and healed. Even the aches from riding Changchang had faded. She looked up at him, and smiled.

"Thank you," she said. "I am in your debt, Mr. Elric."

He smiled back, and then stood, bowed to both Lan Fan and Princess Chang, and went off to go fix somebody else. He would be a good healer, she thought. He had the right manner for it.

"Lady Ma," said Princess Chang. "As I recall, the Fengs didn't have an invitation either. So the presence of all four of you at my event is about as explicable as a snake with two heads."

Lan Fan bit her tongue, and drew herself up to her feet. "They gatecrashed, then. I was just invited to come along." She met Princess Chang's eyes. "Forgive me, your highness, but I did not mean to offend you with my presence, or by my words. I beg your pardon."

"Who were you fighting with?"

"I don't know their identity. They threatened me. I defended myself. And put out the fire that was started," Lan Fan added. She stood. Her whole body felt sore, from Changchang, from the aftermath of the fight, from everything. She bit her tongue. "There were two of them. One escaped. The other is dead."

"You killed him?"

"He tried to kill me."

Princess Chang's mouth tightened. She straightened, and tossed her hair back. "You are truly a barbarian, Lady Ma."

Lan Fan closed her eyes for a moment. She drew a breath, and let it out. For some reason, the words stung, even though they truly shouldn't have. She was in character. So was Mei Chang. But they  _hurt,_ for reasons she only could vaguely grasp, because she'd heard them as a child and she'd been hearing them lately, and she was starting to take it personally. "Better a living barbarian than a dead one," she said, and pushed by Mei Chang. "The dead man in your ballroom might stain the floor soon, if you're not careful, your highness."

Mei Chang made a noise that could have been called a squawk. Lan Fan pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders—the air was surprisingly chilly, considering the time of year—and went to join Chen and the Fengs at the edge of the garden. The Zheng boy stared at all the blood on her skirt, and went a bit white before excusing himself and darting away. She wondered if he was going to vomit.

Lien Hua Feng stood up from where she'd been waiting, brushed the dust off the back of her swirling green skirt, and reached out to Lan Fan with both hands. Lan Fan blinked, but as Lien Hua stood waiting, she scrubbed her hands clean of blood as best she could, and rested her fingers lightly against Lien Hua's palms. "Lady Feng?"

"Don't call me that," said Lien Hua Feng, and squeezed Lan Fan's fingers. "There are three of us here. Calling us all Feng would be stupidly confusing."

"But—"

"Lien Hua is fine," said Lien Hua. She was still holding tight to Lan Fan's hands. "You surprise me, swallow-girl."

Lan Fan blinked. "I do?"

"You do," said Lien Hua, and then she tucked her arm through the crook of Lan Fan's metal elbow, and said "Come on. Parties don't seem to be in the cards for us tonight. We'll go somewhere else. And get you a change of clothes." Her nose wrinkled. "You can keep the dress."

Lan Fan blinked again, and then smiled again, shyly. She wasn't quite sure why, but she felt like she'd just passed a very important test, and one that had mattered to her, to boot. "You're all uninjured?"

"We're all right. Better than we could have been," said Xinzhe Feng, and to her surprise, he slipped his arm through her free one, so she was braced on either side by a Feng. "You didn't happen to keep the sword he was using, did you?"

"No. The first one ran away."

"Damn." The skin around his eyes tightened. "No crest that you could see?"

"No," Lan Fan said again.

Lien Hua took one of the emeici from her hair, and tucked it behind her own ear. Lan Fan's bun just barely stayed in place. Across from the three of them, Dong Mao and Mingli were standing side by side, Dong Mao smoking like a teamster, Mingli Chen watching them carefully out of the corner of his eye. Then Lan Fan cleared her throat, and said, "If we're to go somewhere, I'd like to wash off the blood. If that's all right."

"You know, swallow-girl" said Lien Hua, "even if you  _are_ a horse-wife, you're not the bad sort at all." She lifted her voice. "We'll go to the Feng house. Come on, Chen," she added, and looped her free arm through Mingli's. "Dong Mao, we're going home."

"Good," said Dong Mao, and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked at the four of them, Xinzhe to Mingli, and Lan Fan felt Xinzhe's arm tighten in hers. "I've been saying that for half an hour."

"That's only because you don't like parties," said Lien Hua, and Dong Mao scowled.

They walked together, Lan Fan, Lien Hua, Xinzhe, and MIngli still linked, Dong Mao trailing behind, and she could feel Mei Chang's and Alphonse Elric's eyes on her back as they went.

* * *

The Feng house was the Feng rooms made large: paintings, carpets, foreign prints and books all laid out against the walls like they were a library of knowledge. She'd seen some of these titles in Dr. Knox's house in Amestris—medical texts, classic Amestrian literature—but others were in Aerugan or in Drachman, languages she couldn't read and didn't have a clue how to decipher. As soon as they came in, Dong Mao vanished into a side passage.

A mirror was hung just opposite the front door, one of the biggest pieces of glass she'd ever seen in her life, and Lan Fan stared at her reflection in shock. In the light of the oil lamps, she looked that much worse—she'd managed to escape most of the spray of the slit throat, but there was still blood all up and down her front from searching his pockets, and ash from the flaming curtains had smeared her cheeks and hands. The gold streaks in her hair had stayed. She put a hand up to her throat, and then drew a breath.

"You don't look as bad as you could," said Lien Hua. Then she frowned. "Still. You look awful."

"Thank you," said Lan Fan, though she wasn't sure if she should feel offended or not.

"Come on. We'll go bathe." Lien Hua glanced at the boys. "Meet us in a little while in the book room, Xinzhe."

"I could always join you if you want," said Xinzhe, lifting his eyebrows, and Lien Hua gave him a flat look.

"You're disgusting, and we're going alone."

"The offer was made to Lady Ma, my dear sister, and not you. I think if I had to bathe with you I might get hives."

Lan Fan flushed, but said, "We're perfectly all right on our own, thank you, Lord Feng."

"If you're calling my sister by her first name, Xinzhe's fine with me. And  _unlike_ my sister, I'll call you Feiyan, if that's all right." Without waiting for an answer, he turned, and nudged Mingli Chen. "C'mon. You said you wanted to see the Aerugan novels that Lien Hua's obsessed with, didn't you?"

Chen nodded, shot a glance at Lan Fan, and then said to Xinzhe, "I did, actually."

"Xinzhe is ridiculous," said Lien Hua, and pulled Lan Fan down another corridor. The wood floor was chilly on her bare feet; the walls were made of sandalwood. She took a breath. The scent still hung in the air. "Ignore him."

"I don't think he'd appreciate that, somehow."

"It'll be good for him," said Lien Hua. "Considering how often he flirts, getting rejected once or twice would do wonders for his ego. This way."

They ran into a servant or two on the way to the baths. Lan Fan recognized none of them. Nor did any of  _these_ servants have alkahestry braids or obvious weaponry, not like Ning and Wen in the Feng rooms off the Sprout Gardens. It stuck in her head, for some reason. Either they had nothing to hide, in this house, at least, or they were more comfortable about their security in their own manorhouse. No matter which it was, it meant that the Feng house might be easier to explore than the Feng rooms.

The bathroom was long and steamy; the bath itself the size of her old room in the palace. She could feel the prickle of an alkahestry circle under the floorboards, stinging at her toes, and wondered if they were using  _qi_ to keep the bathwater hot and clean as Lien Hua shimmied out of her dress, kicked off her shoes, took the pins out of her hair, and slid into the hot water. It was only once Lien Hua had dunked her head and swept her now soaking-wet hair up out of her face, white streak and all, that she said, "You're not going to fall in love with my brother, are you?"

Lan Fan nearly fell off her stool. She stared at Lien Hua for a moment, and then went back to taking off her shoes. For some reason, the back of her neck felt hot. "I don't want to fall in love with anyone. I'll be gone in nine months, and where would that leave me?"

"Oh, please. I'm sure your blasted Yao cousins would be ecstatic if you stuck around." Lien Hua blinked, and then stood, and waded to the edge of the pool, where an incense burner rested. She struck a match on a dry brick, and lit the burner, and soon the smell of lavender began to waft up from the candle. "I wouldn't be surprised if Lady Suyin already as a match planned out for you, swallow-girl. And that still doesn't answer my question."

"I'm not going to fall in love with Xinzhe Feng," said Lan Fan, and Lien Hua folded her arms on the edge of the bath. Her smile had a tinge of acid about it.

"What about Dong Mao?"

Lan Fan shifted uncomfortably. "I have no interest in your brothers, Lady—Lien Hua."

"Why not?" Lien Hua tilted her head to the side, resting her cheek on her arms as Lan Fan stood, her shoes, earrings, and medallion off, and pulled her borrowed dress up over her head. "We're triplets. I know how attractive  _I_ am. It only makes sense that they're pretty, too."

Lan Fan undid her chest bindings, and wondered if Lien Hua could see her training scars through the steam. She could explain them away as riding accidents or tribal clashes, if Lien Hua asked, but she'd rather it didn't happen in the first place. Her face felt very flushed, and she wasn't quite sure if it was from the steam or embarrassment. "No," she said. "I don't plan to fall in love. It seems…inconvenient."

Lien Hua snorted. "To say the least."

The water stung at her feet. Lan Fan slid all the way underwater, closed her eyes, and held herself there for a moment before surfacing again. When she did, Lien Hua had moved across the bath, propping her back against the wall, stretching her legs out in front of her. She was very pale, not a mark on her, like ivory or bone. Lan Fan looked at her own body, at the sword marks, the bruises, the scars, and bit her cheek. When she looked up, Lien Hua was watching her again.

"My uncle wants me to get married," said Lien Hua, and leaned her head back against the rim of the bath, closing her eyes. "To Aiguo Cao, of all people. It'd be a good match for him. I'm an imperial cousin, and besides, the Caos have been our allies for decades." Lan Fan dropped deeper into the water, blowing bubbles, as Lien Hua continued. "It's a de facto engagement, not official, but I know it's what he wants. All of us know. The Caos, my brothers and me. Even Chen," she added, and opened one eye. "What do you think of Cao?"

Lan Fan looked at her. Then she sat up straight again. "I think he's repulsive."

Lien Hua hummed under her breath. "Xinzhe's engaged too, to one of the Lu girls. That's why I had to invite them. I think her name's Mingming, or something. I don't know. I don't particularly care. Dong Mao…Dong Mao hates women, but he's the eldest of us and he's been engaged the longest. An Aerugo noblewoman. I met her once. She can't even speak Xingese."

Lan Fan considered that. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know." Lien Hua trailed her fingers through the water. "So someone else knows, I suppose. It's fairly common knowledge if you ask around. It's not like I'm telling you a secret. Besides, I saw how you looked at Aiguo when we went down to the Sevens Race, when he was talking about that Qarashi woman. Like you wanted to slit him open, nose to navel."

"He's repulsive," said Lan Fan again, and studied her automail arm. There was still blood crusted in the joints. She'd need to oil it, but the oil was back in the Bamboo Garden rooms, and she wasn't going to be able to get there for a while, by the look of things. She pushed the thought aside, and dunked her head again, scrubbing her fingers through her hair. When she surfaced, Lien Hua was humming again, the main rhythm of the song that had been playing right before the assassin had struck.

"Who was he, do you think?" Lan Fan asked, and Lien Hua's eyes opened, and focused on her face.

"Who was who?"

"The man with the sword."

"I don't know." Lien Hua began to tick things off on her fingers. "The Yao, maybe. The Chang, but then again, the high and mighty princess didn't seem to know that we were going to be there at all. The Xie."

"Why the Yao?"

Lien Hua snorted. "Why  _not_ the Yao? They hate us and we hate them." Lan Fan shifted uncomfortably, but Lien Hua either didn't notice or didn't comment. "Besides, it's not as though we've made ourselves inconspicuous. My uncle has done things that people hate him for, and with him out of reach, we're the only ones left."

Lan Fan considered that. Then she levered herself up out of the pool, went to her shoes, and grabbed the medallion. She dropped back into the bath, waded across, and offered it to Lien Hua, watching the Feng girl's eyes. "Do you recognize this?"

Lien Hua took the medallion, dipped it into the water to scrub the blood off, and then squinted at it. She turned it over and over, running the pad of her thumb over the phoenix, the character for fire, and then again in reverse. Then she glanced up at Lan Fan. "This is Huo."

Lan Fan couldn't help it. She bit her tongue, and forced the image of her grandfather from her mind. "Huo?"  _Please don't mean what I think this means._

"They're a group of people from across the desert. A cult." Lan Fan bit her tongue rather than sigh in relief. At least she hadn't just killed one of her own people. "My uncle drove them out of Feng-guo last year, once they'd started taking over villages in the name of their god." Lien Hua turned the medallion character side up, and showed it to Lan Fan. "See?  _Huo_. They call themselves the Fires of God. Did this come off the man you killed?"

"He was wearing it."

Lien Hua weighed the medallion in her hand for a long moment. "If he was one of the Firebrands, then my uncle has underestimated their tenacity. He's been trying to burn them out of the villages for the past six months, but they just cling on."

Lan Fan hadn't heard any of this. She took the medallion back and hung it around her neck for a lack of anything else to do. "I didn't know."

"You wouldn't, swallow-girl."

"What makes them so dangerous?"

"They think that someday soon, the apocalypse is coming." Lien Hua said it so casually that Lan Fan thought at first she was joking. "They believe that if they don't eliminate the corrupt officials of the administration—that includes us, I suppose—then Feng-guo, and all of Xing, will fall to the fires of their god's wrath." Her lips pursed. "Fools. But then again, most of them are uneducated peasants. It's the ringleaders that are the problem, immigrants from Aerugo or somewhere. No, they're Amestrian. Their leader is named Shiloh Trener." Her Amestrian pronunciation wasn't bad, but nor was it good; she added too many tones. "He came from…I think Uncle said a city called Liore."

Liore. Ed and Al had mentioned Liore once or twice, she thought. So had Dr. Knox, when she'd asked him to tell her about Amestris.  _Anything_ , she'd said.  _Anything important. Anything recent._ Lan Fan bit her tongue. A religious man from Liore.

"—the Qarashi are different, anyway," said Lien Hua, and Lan Fan snapped back to reality. Lien Hua gave her a pitying look. "You don't know much about Feng-guo, do you?"

Lan Fan shrugged.

"Fine," said Lien Hua. "Bianjiehu is the capitol. Our country is small, but prosperous, right on the ocean; people come from all over Xing and even from across the desert to trade with us. We get a lot of Aerugans, a lot of desert peoples. We have a decent Qarashi population, mostly ana-Qarashi who are on the run from the priest-king."

Lan Fan nodded. "The ones who worship the old gods instead of the priest-king."

"Yes." Lien Hua tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear. "There aren't many countries in Xing who accept refugees. But since we have so many foreigners coming in anyway, my uncle opened the doors to them. It's a long trip for them, but it's either that or die. A lot of the nomadic desert tribes escort them in. Anyway, the Fires of God have been in our lands for almost seven years now, but after their leader was overthrown in Amestris a few years ago, they've grown fairly…irascible. That's why my brothers and I are here, instead of our uncle. He has his hands full at the moment."

"Oh," said Lan Fan. She pulled her knees up to her chest. "I've never heard of them."

"You wouldn't have. They stay away from the nomads. They tried to convert a tribe of Minari, and a group of them were slaughtered. Ever since then, the Firebrands have hated any of the nomadic peoples, doesn't matter if they're Xingese or not."

Lan Fan winced, and closed her eyes. The Minari were a roaming, raiding desert tribe who spent a great deal of their time hitting Xingese, Amestrian, or Aerugan outposts, and selling the spoils to whoever paid the highest price, including human goods. She was fairly certain that the battle she supposedly lost her arm in had been with one of the Minari, though that had never been confirmed in her rehearsals with Mei Chang.

"If the Firebrands are attempting to assassinate us, then I fear what's happening in Feng-guo has gone out of my uncle's control." Lien Hua dipped down until only her face was above the water, the white streak in her hair sticking to her cheek. "But we must remain here until the end of the Gathering, so there is little I or my brothers can do about it."

"I'm sorry," said Lan Fan, and she was. She'd waited on the sidelines. She'd nearly given herself an ulcer doing it. "Have you heard from your uncle?"

"No, but that's common. I'll send him a message hawk tomorrow." Lien Hua frowned at her, but she stayed quiet, and Lan Fan leaned back into the water. There was soap and hair oils, perfumes and pumice rocks, even bubble bath from Amestris, but she ignored all of it. She'd washed her hair before going to the Fengs' imperial apartments. Besides, she thought, almost languid, if she lifted her arms right now, she might just faint from the exertion.

Time passed. A servant came in, took their clothes, and then left towels and robes to change into. She heard a clock chime the hour, and realized it was nearly midnight. They'd been at the party longer than she'd realized. Then Lien Hua cleared her throat, and said, "Why did you save us from the Firebrands?"

"I don't know," Lan Fan said, and stared up at the ceiling. "I didn't want to see you die, I suppose."

Lien Hua blinked at her. Then she sputtered, and began to laugh. Her painted-green fingernails dug into the side of the bathtub. Finally, she wiped her eyes, still giggling, and said, "You're  _so_ strange, swallow-girl."

"It's true," said Lan Fan, her ears red, and ducked into the water again. "I didn't want to see you die."

"Even though we've been treating you so vilely?"

"You haven't," said Lan Fan. "No worse than anyone else."

"Such an  _innocent_  little swallow-girl," said Lien Hua, and poked Lan Fan in the calf with her big toe. Lan Fan yanked her leg away automatically. "Still. We owe you our lives, Xinzhe, Dong Mao, and I. It's not something a Feng forgets in a hurry. Dong Mao will resent you for it."

"Will you?"

"Oh, a little, but not as much as Dong Mao. I'm insensitive, y'know," she added, and Lan Fan wondered whether or not she was lying. "I can't sense  _qi_ at all. Xinzhe can do it, a little, but Dong Mao's the most talented of us. The fact that you sensed the Huo assassin while he didn't is going to keep him mad for weeks." Lien Hua frowned at her. "How did you sense him, by the way?"

"My father taught me  _qi_ -sensing when I was a child." Lan Fan pushed her hair up out of her face, finger-combing it lightly. "I was always good at it. I could always tell if someone was sneaking up on me. My mother said that when I was little I would tell her if someone was coming towards the tent, even if the flap was down and she couldn't hear anything at all. When she told my father, he realized what it was, and decided to train me. We're a warrior tribe—we can all sense  _qi_ to some degree, and there was no point in not being able to control it. Besides,  _qi-_ sensing helps with riding."

"It does?"

"Animals are more in tune with the Dragon's Pulse than any of us." Lan Fan drew a breath, let it out, and then stepped out of the bath. Her fingers were wrinkled and her toes pruny. She seized a towel, and wrapped it around herself. "They sense things humans can't, not even master alkahestrists. Using  _qi_ in riding is a blessing."

"Dong Mao says you keep your  _qi_ cloaked," said Lien Hua silkily, and Lan Fan looked up to find Lien Hua watching her with mirror-eyes, a slight, courtish smile on her lips. Her palms were sweating, and the back of her neck went cold. "Why?"

"Because that's how I was trained," said Lan Fan. "Besides, with so many alkahestrists at court, it seems sloppy to let it lie all over the place."

She had dried her hair and pulled on her robes—light, thin, Feng green—by the time Lien Hua responded.

"I suppose," she said.

Lien Hua changed. They left the bath together, side by side rather than arm in arm. Lan Fan fingered the medallion around her neck, thoughtfully. The  _qi_ she'd sensed at the party had been familiar, the way that the  _qi_ of the coronation-day assassin had been. If this assassin's  _qi_ —the masked man's  _qi_ —was almost the same, that meant that the two men were either siblings, had been raised together, or had been trained by the same master, and either way, that meant that someone from the Fires of God wanted the emperor dead.

She clenched her fist around the phoenix medallion, and tucked it back under her shirt. Perhaps she had learned something tonight, after all.

* * *

The room in Nuqu was dark and cold, and when Huli crawled in through the window, it was empty. He slammed the shutters behind him, and then stumbled back and landed hard on his ass, leaning his head back to rest against the wall. His hand throbbed like a demon, his throat and back ached from the damn metal arm, and he could barely breathe from keeping his  _qi_ locked down so tightly all the way from Zhuque, but it had been worth it. He hadn't sensed anyone following him.

He heard the match strike before he moved, and Huli seized the heavy blade he'd stolen in his good hand. It was Sheng; the shadows from the oil lamp flickered against her face, leaving caverns under her eyes. She frowned at him, and unleashed her  _qi_ again, warm and vibrant against the walls. "You fool," she said, and came forward, holding her hand out for his. When he tried to give her his good one, she smacked it away. "Show it to me," she said, and he did without question. When she moved his fingers, he swore under his breath. "Tendons are severed," she said. "Needs healing."

"Good damn luck," he said, and yanked his hand back out of reach. He threw his porcelain mask across the room, and listened to it shatter, ignoring the pounding on the wall from next door. Who cared if he woke their neighbors? "Just give me a bandage."

"Did you succeed?"

"Not nearly. They had a damn bulldog to protect them." Sheng gave him a bandage, and some of the rough alcohol that had probably been brewed in the basement of their hotel, and he unstoppered the bottle with his teeth, pouring its contents over his hand. It burned like fire, like he was holding his hand in flame, and he dug his teeth so deep into the cork that it split in two. " _Dammit_."

"The triplets live?"

"The triplets live," he replied, and cut a piece of the bandage away from the rest, folding it up and setting it in the palm of his hand, where the knife had pierced through. Then he unrolled the rest of the bandage, and began to wrap his hand, over and under, in a thick pattern, thinking hard.  _The triplets live, and they have a wildcat at their heels_.

The girl. Young. Eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Almost the same age as the targets. Dark haired. Fair skinned. Strong. She'd nearly held him down. That damn arm of hers was unique. He'd heard of a woman like her, years ago, but there was no way the Emperor's Shadow would have been at the party he'd found tonight. No way that the Emperor's personal bodyguard was standing watch over the Fengs. Besides, the Emperor was still guarded, behind all his walls and all his men, impossible to get at, and if the Emperor's Shadow had been fired, the whole country would have known about it.

Over and under went the bandage, and when he held his hand out to Sheng, she gave him a clip. He would have to sew his hand together, he thought, but for now, this was how it would stay. Open, and raw, and the knife that did it in his hand, a weapon to be used against her. A woman. A young woman. A strong woman. A warrior. A practiced one. She'd slit Xiyi's throat like it was nothing, like she'd done it before. A formidable opponent.

He bit his tongue.

"Sheng," he said, and Sheng snapped to attention. She was thin and small, almost fragile, and the collar gleamed around her throat. "Go and find Lang. Bring him here. I need to speak with him. It seems that our plans have changed."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm certain."

"This better not become a problem later," she said, and with a curt nod, she left the room. She hadn't asked where Xiyi was. There had been no need. Huli finished his makeshift bandages, and rested both hands on his knees. The alcohol left a sharp smell in the room, like poison. His scar itched under his hair. Huli undid his braid, and then stood, wrenching off the stifling black robes, the underarmor, until he was standing in thin trousers and nothing else, staring at his arms.

A girl. Only a girl. He christened her  _Ying_ in his head,  _Ying_ for hawk, and he flung her knife into the door. It stuck there, quivering, in a map of Feng-guo.

"Our plans have changed," he said again, and bared his teeth in a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Lien Hua told Lan Fan all that for a reason. Xinzhe is a flirt for a reason. Dong Mao is an ass for a reason. The Fires of God want to kill people for a reason. Everyone has a reason. Wheee, plot.
> 
> For those who might have been confused as to why Lan Fan was confused: the Huo family (written 霍, which can mean either cholera or "quickly" depending on how you read it) is the name of her family, a clan that has sworn fealty to the Yao. So her full name is actually Huo Lan Fan, or, anglicized, Lan Fan Huo. The Huo of the Fires of God is 火, or fire. The tones are different, but when written down in English, the words look the same, so I will be calling the cultish Huo the Fires of God, the Firebrands, or be sure to specify to keep people from getting confused.
> 
> Speaking of confusion, there have been some questions about names. I'm sorry to be throwing so many people at you all at once, but since we know so little about Xing, and the only four characters we have from that country are Lan Fan, Mei, Fuu, and Ling, there are going to be a lot of names being flung up in the air. Pretty much every character I've named matters, and I'm working on getting them all into the Swallows on the Beampage on my Tumblr, so if you ever get confused, you can check there. Again, I'm shu-of-the-wind on Tumblr; add sotb after the dot-com.
> 
> Other people have asked about tones and pronunciation of the names. As someone who does not speak much Chinese or know tones, I've been choosing how names are written depending on aesthetics. Since those who have not studied/do not know Chinese can be incredibly intimidated by tones (for example, the name of a butterfly sword, hudie shuang dao, is actually húdié shuāng dāo with tones) I have elected not to use them. I'll have them up on my page as soon as I get into contact with my Chinese major friends, however, for those who are interested, along with a more manageable pronunciation guide for those who don't read tones.
> 
> My Chinese transliteration is in pinyin, if nobody's noticed.
> 
> ...yeah.
> 
> I've also had some questions about fanart; if you want to draw fanart for SotB, I would be delighted! Just let me know when it's done. ;)
> 
> As to why Ling and Lan Fan haven't been interacting much, they physically haven't been able to because of Lan Fan's status and the Emperor's duties. That'll change as of next chapter, though. ;) "See you at dawn."


	9. Pistol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "Ononoki," from the _Mononoke_ soundtrack.  
>  "Lovers - Flower Garden," from _The House of Flying Daggers_ soundtrack.

**Eight: Pistol**

Ling woke up sweating two hours before dawn, his hand clenched tight around the blade he kept under the pillow and his senses lashing the walls of the Peony Pavilion. He'd been dreaming, he thought, panting, squinting through the dark, but he couldn't remember what it was, now. There had been blood and gunshots. A burning chair.

Fuu had been in the dream, he thought. So had Lan Fan. Together again, watching him. Lan Fan reaching for him as he slipped off the edge.

His sweep of the pavilion came up clean. Ling dropped back onto his mattress, forcing himself to breathe deeper, staring hard at the whirling flowers someone had carved into the ceiling. It had been done a long time ago; some had been rubbed smooth by time, leaves and petals nearly disappearing into the old oak. He clenched his hand tighter around the  _kunai_ , and drew it out from under the pillow. It had been a gift from Fuu for his fourteenth birthday, the year before they'd gone to Amestris. Folded steel. A simple handle. So different from the blades his mother had given him that same year, jewel-encrusted and pretty and almost entirely useless.

He missed Fuu. Ling rested his hand over his eyes. The men and women he had beside him now were able advisors, clear-headed and intelligent, but Fuu had been there since before he could remember, steady and gruff and always with the right answer. Somehow, Fuu had known what to do in any situation, always known the best course of action, especially when Ling hadn't had a clue.

Ling swore under his breath, and rolled out of bed.

The Huo didn't bury their dead. So far as Ling knew, they never had done. Instead, the bodies were burned, their ashes spread to the four winds, carried to the ends of the earth they had never been able to reach in life. A small bit of ash was kept to be placed with their gravestone, mixed with the earth beneath their name, to tie them back to the family to which they had sworn their lives. There was a small yard on the edge of the Yao property in Zhuque, filled with standing stones, and it was there that Fuu's last remaining ashes were buried, beneath a standing gravestone marked with his name.

Ling crouched on the rooftop of the Yao household, staring down at the graves. The cherry tree had stopped blooming weeks ago, but the branches still cast long shadows over the markers of the dead. He could sense his mother inside the house, a few of the Yao servants, even a few Huo. Only one of them was awake, though. He kept his  _qi_ leashed, and leapt from the roof to the tree to the ground, landing two rows down and three rows over from Fuu's grave.

Fuu's stone had been erected towards the back, near the wall, just out of sight of the house. Someone had been by recently; there was an orchid laying on the stone, and the gravesite had been washed. Ling dropped down on the grass, folding his hands over his knees. The moon would set soon. He didn't have long before someone noticed he'd gone missing, and the palace imploded.

"I snuck out," he told the grave, and grinned to himself. His Shadow would be livid with him when he returned. If the man had noticed. Lan Fan's ability to sense his  _qi_ had always bordered on the eerie. Her doppelganger didn't have nearly the same sort of acuity, couldn't match her sense of the Dragon's Pulse. Ling would be more surprised than anything if the new man—his name was Peng—had even noticed that the Emperor had left his quarters. And the rest of the guards were no help. They were all excellent at  _qi-_ sensing, but they rarely ever checked in. The families each guard reported to would be disappointed tonight.

"The assassins have held off," he said. "Or they're plotting. I don't know. No one's tried to kill me in a few years." A breeze picked up. "Lan Fan is fine. Stubborn as always. She's been…quieter, since Amestris. She doesn't get flustered the way she used to anymore. She won't even look me in the face. I think…I think part of it, at least, is because she misses you. I don't know if she even realizes how much."

He picked at the grass around his legs. Fuu had always loathed sentimentality. The dead were dead, and not to be brought back. Still, Ling picked at his jacket sleeve, a fidgeting habit he'd had since he was twelve years old. He cast a side-eyed look at the gravestone, and then started watching his feet again. It had been a long time since he'd been able to choose his own clothes, even though he'd long since established that he would dress himself. (The first time he'd tossed the servants out on their ears, he had nearly caused an in-palace revolt. It had improved since then.) The simple shoes and the loose trousers felt almost odd, after so many months of imperial robes.

"I couldn't mention it the last time I was here," he told the gravestone, "but I think you'd want to know. Lan Fan's managed to get even more beautiful since you've been dead and burned."

He remembered when they'd been children, he and Lan Fan, working on their  _kata_  in the Yao athletics hall. She was a few months older than him, only two or three, and at that point he'd been eleven and she'd been twelve and he'd been caught in that irascible period of being exceptionally jealous that his bodyguard was older than he was. They'd already sparred once or twice that day (Lan Fan had knocked him down, which had only made him more irritable and determined to win) and Fuu, probably to keep them from killing each other, had set them to individual blade dances. Ling had taken the  _dao_. Lan Fan had gravitated immediately towards the knives, and settled on the  _kunai_ without a word.

He'd been training with Fuu since he was old enough to close his fingers around a blade, but Lan Fan moved like the  _kunai_ was a part of her, like it was simply another finger on her hand. She swept and rolled and leaped like a dancer, every move fluid, precise, necessary. He'd been so distracted watching her that he'd nearly tripped over his own feet on a lunge.

It was the first time he'd realized that Lan Fan was beautiful. Or, he thought, leaning back, not the first time he'd realized it, but the first time he'd acknowledged something he'd always known. At that moment, watching her on the mats, her cheeks flushed, her hair stuck to her face, her lips slightly parted as she moved, it had hit him so damn hard: That Lan Fan, the girl who flushed when he looked at her sideways, the one who always went along with his stupid pranks, the one who worried and fought for him with the same fervor she put into everything, was beautiful. Strikingly, honestly beautiful. It had been like someone had knocked him over the head like a rock.

It wasn't as though he'd ever done anything about it, or ever even  _contemplated_  doing anything about it. He'd never had the chance, never had the time. Lan Fan was his greatest ally, his closest guard, his best weapon. He could not afford to think she was pretty, couldn't afford to think of her in any other way other than a precious confederate and—he hoped—friend. But he would be lying to himself if he said that the only reason he missed her was because of that.

Ling had never admitted that he thought her beautiful, not to her, not to anyone. But Fuu had always known it, he thought, glancing at the grave again. He'd never called Lan Fan handsome to her face, so far as Ling knew, but she was his precious granddaughter. She couldn't have been anything but.

Lan Fan had always been the difference, he thought, turning the grass over and over in his fingers. She had been his translation, and his translator. The catalyst and the product. She and Fuu had been the spark for his understanding of what it truly  _meant,_ all the power he had been seeking for so long. There was a difference, to a child, between the idea of the king's people, and the people he saw every day. He had repeated, over and over again, what it meant to  _be_ a king, to be the emperor; he had parroted the rules, the creeds, but he hadn't tasted them in his mouth, felt the weight of it on his shoulders like armor. Then, when they'd been thirteen, Lan Fan had killed a Xie assassin, and he'd finally understood. A king was  _nothing_ without his people. Not even a man himself. He was less than human.

He rolled to his feet. "I'll bring some incense the next time I come. I keep forgetting."

 _Forget nothing_ , Fuu grumped at him, and Ling couldn't help it. He smiled a bit. Then it died, just as quickly, because a person's  _qi_ died with their body. There was no trace of Fuu in the grave. Still, he set his hand over the old man's name, digging his thumb into the carved character.

"You know something?" he said, and laughed. "I made it to the top, Fuu, just like we always said. But there are still things I can't do."

* * *

Lan Fan didn't really sleep anymore.

She napped—it was easier, in some ways, to nap in twenty, thirty, or ninety minute intervals than to sleep through a full night, especially as a bodyguard—but she didn't sleep. She lay in her bed in the Feng house, staring up at the ceiling (trimmed with green silk) and listened to the  _qi_ signatures wandering around the building.

Dong Mao didn't sleep at all, so far as she could tell. His signature was up and bubbling in what she assumed was the library from the time she managed to extract herself from Xinzhe and Lien Hua's snarly game of snuff, and that had to have been at least three hours ago. Lien Hua was asleep. Xinzhe was gone, and had been for a few hours now, ever since he had said he was off to bed and Lien Hua had teased him about one of the Lu girls next door. But he wasn't in the Lu house, and he wasn't within her range anymore. Considering that her range was three  _li_ square, roughly, that actually meant something. Lan Fan rolled over onto her side. They'd given her a room of her own, same as they'd done for Mingli Chen, right in the heart of the house.  _Either they're starting to trust me_ , she thought,  _or they're doing a damn good job of pretending to_.

This was the second time Xinzhe had vanished, she thought. Once at the Sevens race, and again now. Was he going to meet someone within the conspiracy? If he was, who? If it wasn't part of the Feng involvement with the Qarashi dispute, then where was he going, and what was he doing? It prickled like a burr in her sock, and she only had so much time to find out, but she couldn't go after him, and she couldn't go after Lien Hua, either. She couldn't explore. Not yet. It was too early.

Nine months. She rolled the idea around in her mind. Less than that, really; Suyin had already been a month pregnant by the time Feiyan Ma had arrived at court, and it had been a few weeks since then. So eight months. More, if they stretched it. She was in the Feng house, she was (hopefully) in their circle of trust, but she couldn't afford to be risky this early in the game, no matter how much she wanted to tear the house apart, top to bottom, to find something incriminating. That was something else she didn't like about spying, she realized, and scowled at the ceiling. How damn long it took. Bodyguard work was what she was built for, what she was good at, and it was simple. Find target. Eradicate. Spying was a whole different animal.

She dozed. When she first felt the  _qi_ hovering on the edge of her senses, she thought she was dreaming. She'd spent so many nights sleeping within reaching distance of her master, so many months keyed in to his  _qi_ signature, that it wouldn't have been impossible for her to just doze off and cling to it. Then it pulsed, just once, and Lan Fan shot out of bed, seized the coat she'd been loaned, and was out the window and on the roof before she could take a full breath.

Where was he? Close. Further away than Dong Mao could sense, hopefully. But much closer than was safe. She drew a breath and ran, quick and silent, along the roofline of the Feng house before leaping to the next. It might have been the Chengs. He could sense her coming; there was a hint of satisfaction in the curl of  _qi_ that he waved at her before cloaking again that made her want to smile and cry all at once.

 _You fool_ , she thought, but her heart tumbled in her chest.  _You complete and utter fool._

He was crouched behind a gargoyle on the roof of the Bai house, six blocks down and three over from the Fengs. (And when it came to Zhuque, blocks could be longer than a full Xuanwe ward.) She landed hard, rolled, and popped back up to her feet. Inside the house, nothing and no one moved. No one had heard her. Lan Fan went down on one knee, clasping her arm to her chest.

"Highness."

"Lan Fan," he said, and he sounded like he was smiling. He crouched in front of her, wrapping his arms around his knees. He was wearing a cloak, she realized, simple clothes, like what he'd worn in Amestris. "You don't have to bow, it's just us."

"I always have to bow," she told him. Fingers—warm, rough, familiar—brushed against her chin, and tilted her head up. Lan Fan nearly fell off her own feet, because  _her master was touching her_. The  _Emperor_ was touching her. "Sir—"

He said nothing, but his fingers tightened against her skin. He studied her, carefully, eyes roaming over her face, and she felt the heat swell and blossom in her cheeks, her ears, her belly. Lan Fan tightened her fingers into fists. "Sir," she said, but something in her wouldn't let her pull back. She was frozen stiff, staring at him. "You shouldn't."

"I shouldn't check to see if a friend and comrade is all right after spending a night in enemy territory?" His thumb brushed over the spot where she'd been cut, back in the Chang house. She wondered if there was a difference between old skin and new, wondered if he could feel it. Lan Fan hesitated, and then reached out, not with her hands, but with her  _qi_ , quiet, controlled, checking for holes. A person's  _qi_ could always show if they were hurt, even if they were healing, and trying not to show it. She felt his hand fall away from her as she studied him, but she didn't stop until she was certain that he was as hale and hearty as when she'd left him.

Then she realized he was still staring at her, and she blushed and stared at the roof tiles. "Apologies, your highness. I should trust your companions to keep you safe. But—"

"Habit," he said, and she closed her eyes. He had always been able to read her mind. Master Ling leaned his back against the base of the gargoyle, crossing his legs at the ankle, resting his hands on his knees, like he was meditating. They had an hour before dawn, but less before he was missed. "I know."

"You shouldn't be here," she told him, in a quiet, hissing voice. "You could have been seen. Someone could have sensed you. Besides, if someone wakes up and finds you missing—"

"What about if the Feng find  _you_ missing?"

"I already told them I would have to be heading back to the palace before dawn."

"Ah," said Master Ling, and his lips turned up. "For our appointment."

"That wasn't how I phrased it, master, but yes." She kept her eyes on a spot of crumbling stone just over his shoulder, enough so she could see his expression in her peripheral vision, but she wasn't looking at him directly. Where he'd touched her still burned, like she'd been marked with iron. "I…assumed we would be able to talk then."

"Not with the attendants Minister Liu is sending with me. I think he's afraid that Feiyan Ma will sully my senses." Lan Fan dug her fingers into her knees, refusing to react to that. "I came to visit Fuu, and sensed you. I couldn't not say hello."

 _You could have, and you know it_ , she thought, but she bit her tongue. As risky as this was, as  _dangerous_ as it was, not just for him, but for both of them, something in her was finally unwinding from a tight ball. Being near him again…it was soothing. He'd always managed that, somehow, always made her smile. Lan Fan peeked at him, once, and then said, "I have news."

"And what would that be?"

She told him, in a few short sentences, of the Chang party, the attack on the Fengs. Master Ling smiled, his court smile, the one he always used when he was thinking very hard and wasn't about to explain what was on his mind. She showed him the medallion, too, pulling it from her neck and setting it carefully in his hand without touching him. (He was the Emperor, and could afford to forget himself. She could not.) It was only once he'd run his thumb over the phoenix three times that he looked up again.

"The party. Was it well received?"

She blinked. "I…I suppose. People appeared to be enjoying themselves."

"Mostly younger?"

"I saw no one over the age of thirty." Questions burst in her throat. Ling turned over the medallion one last time, and then closed his hand over it.

"You should return," he said, "before they suspect you. And I should get back before Shan decides to overthrow me and leave me to die on a fencepost."

Lan Fan nodded. He had a plan, she thought, studying him. It was all in his fingers, the way he was sitting. Settled. Calm. Like things were happening exactly as he had predicted them. She stood only after he did, bowed once, and turned to go, but then he called her back. "Wait," he said, "stand still," and she froze without question. Cool metal brushed against her throat. He was putting the medallion back on her.

"Don't forget," he said, and a fingertip brushed against the nape of her neck. "Depart as you entered."

"Leave all the same." Lan Fan put a hand up to the medallion, and tried to pretend her ears weren't red. It was something her grandfather had always told them. Master Ling's hands brushed against her shoulders, and then he stepped away, and she could bow again. She heard him sigh, but he said nothing of it. She licked her lips.

"Good luck, your highness."

He laughed, and she nearly smiled before she caught herself. "And to you, Lan Fan."

The house was just starting to wake when she slid back in through her window, tore off her misty clothes, and cuddled back up in bed. She was just in time. A maid came to wake her less than five minutes after she'd returned, as per her request to leave before dawn, and Lan Fan didn't even bother to pretend that she had been sleeping. She lay on her back until the maid left again, and then she sat up, and clasped one hand, her flesh hand, around the medallion, and pretended she could still catch the warmth of his hand from the unyielding metal.

* * *

The stables at dawn were chillier than she expected, and Lan Fan's toes curled into her shoes as she took down a halter and rope, and headed for Changchang's stall in the back. Jian Zhang wasn't there yet, or if he was, he hadn't shown himself to her yet; most of the horses were still dozing in their stalls. It was probably better, she thought, pausing by the gate to Changchang's and giving the warhorse a wary look, that she hadn't disturbed the mare while eating. That would have been a morning to remember.

The Huo medallion was tucked under the collar of her shirt. If Niu Lu had noticed it, and Lan Fan was certain that she had, she hadn't commented. It was more than possible Niu Lu didn't even know what it was; the idea of the Fires of God being an organization of note within Xing was almost incomprehensible.  _Powerful and daring enough to attempt an assassination on three imperial cousins in a room full of nobles in a house populated by probably fifty guards. Maybe more._  She hadn't been able to sense anything,  _qi-_ wise, because she hadn't known—and still didn't know—whether or not the Feng would recognize her as the Emperor's Shadow. If she'd been able to use her  _qi-_ sensing, she'd have a better idea of how difficult it had been for the Fires of God to sneak into Mei Chang's party. As it was, she just had a rough estimate.

 _Considering we snuck in, it can't have been that hard._  But they had had the Zheng boy to let them in.

_Did they have an ally on the inside, I wonder?_

"You're early," Jian Zhang grunted, and Lan Fan turned from where she'd been watching Changchang. The Master of the Horse looked like he hadn't slept; bags under his eyes and an awkwardness to his gait made  _her_ feel sore, and she'd been healed by an Elric last night. Lan Fan lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and glanced back at Changchang, who blew air sharply out of both nostrils and seemed to glare at them both.

"I wake early." There was no sign of the Emperor. They really ought to wait for him, she thought. Even if she wanted to get started already. Her automail hand flickered up to her throat before she forced it back down to her side. Jian Zhang hadn't noticed; he was staring at Changchang, smoking determinedly. The smell of Amestrian tobacco burned the inside of her nose. Lan Fan flapped her hand in front of her face.

"Why are you interested in assisting us, Master?"

He glanced at her sidelong, and then blew out a long, smoky breath, and pulled the pipe from between his teeth. There was a funny little smile on his lips. "Isn't that my job, Lady Ma?"

"To help with a crazed warhorse instead of doing all of the other things I'm sure you ought to be working on?"

He gave her a sidelong look, and then glanced back at Changchang, who began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, rhythmic and furious. "All horses in this stable are under my purview, Lady Ma, even if they're mad."

She glanced at him. Then Lan Fan opened the stall door, stepped inside, and shut it behind her again. Changchang hopped, and paced again, never taking her eyes off of Lan Fan. The whites were showing. Something in her belly tightened. Lan Fan hadn't been expecting anything to change between her and Changchang, even after what had happened the day before, but at the same time it almost seemed to sting.  _Does she think I'll hurt her?_

"What was done to her, do you think?" she asked, and kept her voice quiet and smooth. She held both hands out to Changchang, palm out, and averted her eyes.

"Her? She bears no brand, no burn scars, but the cuts on her…whips. Knife maybe."

"For a stablemaster, you know about weaponry."

"I served in the last war." He stuck his pipe back between his teeth and gripped it hard enough for her to hear a little  _crack_.

"Qarash? I've heard much about the conflict, but I don't believe it could have been called a war."

"That was barely a squabble, military-wise. No, it was Thamasq."

Lan Fan blinked. Thamasq was on the exact opposite side of the empire as Amestris, a desert country looking to become more. It had been the last war before Master Ling's father's death, when she and her master had been eight or nine. Only a few years after she'd come in from the northwest. "We couldn't use warhorses there—the sand was too loose—but scars look the same on man or beast."

She nodded, and watched Changchang out of the corner of her eye.

"Forgive me for asking, mistress, but I've not seen a lady yet with a metal arm."

"I am Ma," she said. "We are a large tribe, with many branches, blessed by the empire. Other tribes dislike us for that, and sometimes decide to take vengeance."

"For the branches or the blessings?"

She smiled, here and then gone. "Both. Where were you stationed in Thamasq?"

"The first border." The front lines, then, she thought, and looked at Jian Zhang again. Such interesting people in this palace, and none of them she'd ever known about before. Lan Fan glanced at the sawdust on the floor.

"You were lucky."

"Don't I know it."

"Know what?" said the Emperor, and Lan Fan couldn't help it. She turned her face away before he saw her flush.  _You are a fool,_  she told herself,  _to think that a touch mattered._  He had not been the Emperor in those few moments, or at least, he had been pretending not to be. It had meant nothing. She did not bow, but she did put her closed fist over her heart in a salute. "Forgive me, majesty," she said. "If I take my eyes off the horse, she might strike."

"She's that bad?" He rested his elbows on the edge of the stall, tilting his head. Changchang gave her whicker-scream, and bounced.

"She can read an opening, majesty," she said, and took a step back, out of Changchang's reach. It was only once her back was against the stall that she turned, just enough, and bowed as far as she dared. One of Shen Liu's nephews (one of the lesser ministers of finance, she thought, but there were so many financial advisors she never really could tell them apart) was at his back, looking exhausted. When he caught sight of her, his eyes widened. She recognized him, vaguely, from the party she'd been at with the Fengs.

"The mare was trained as a warhorse, imperial majesty," said Jian Zhang, and Lan Fan looked back to Changchang. "When warhorses go sour, they're more dangerous than a sand adder."

Master Ling let out a hissing breath. "I've met sand adders. I don't envy you your choice of mount, Lady Ma."

"Thank you for your kindness, imperial majesty." She held a hand out behind her, and Jian Zhang gave her a rope. She closed her metal fingers around it. "But I've met men who can whistle to sand adders and make them dance."

"You wish to become a horse charmer, Lady Ma?" said Liu's nephew, and scoffed a little. Lan Fan stepped closer to Changchang, and then closer again, and when the mare reared back on her hind legs and tried to strike out with her feet, she slipped to the side, tossed the rope over Changchang's neck, and hauled with all her weight. Changchang dropped to the floor again with a squeal that might have been surprised, if she hadn't had her ears flat back and her teeth closing around Lan Fan's metal wrist. Lan Fan let her do it. Changchang didn't seem to be headshy despite everything she'd been through; there was no point in making her do it now.

It was only when she heard the shocked noises from behind her—the Emperor, Liu's nephew, even Jian Zhang—that she looked around and realized that even if Master Ling knew that Lan Fan Huo had an automail arm, the Emperor did not know the same for Feiyan Ma. She waggled her metal fingers, and wished she didn't have to say it aloud.

"It's all right, majesty," she said, and when Changchang let go to try and kick, she stepped aside again. "She can't hurt me there."

"But—"

"Try that again and I skin you," she said to Changchang, but in a quiet, mostly non-threatening voice. Changchang had tried to close her teeth around her human fingers. The mare snorted, and began to spin out, her eyes wide, her nostrils flaring. Lan Fan spun with her. It wasn't like this was any easier than it had been yesterday, but the sense of urgency—of pure panic—she'd been getting from Changchang before was gone. She knew, somewhere, that  _Changchang_ knew that Lan Fan wouldn't raise a hand to her. Nor was she worried about Changchang hurting her. Or, rather, she would forgive Changchang if she  _did_ hurt her. It wasn't just a product of one horse's sour nature anymore. It was something that she could try and fix. "I lost that arm a long time ago, in a clash with the Minari. She can't do much to the replacement."

Liu's nephew—Li Wen, that was his name—pursed his lips. She wondered if that had bettered his opinion of her, or worsened it, especially considering she'd left the Chang party last night covered in human blood.  _He can think whatever he likes_. She flicked her eyes to Jian Zhang, but then again, he'd already known about her arm; he was just watching her, pipe in one hand, his eyebrows furrowing. That was the only glimpse she managed to catch before Changchang whirled again, and nearly ripped the rope out of her hands. She yanked down again, and swore under her breath when Changchang nearly caught her knee with a hoof. "I would appreciate some assistance, Master Zhang. If you're willing to give it."

Jian Zhang nodded, and ducked into the stall.

* * *

Aside from coming off the horse twice, she thought, it had gone fairly well. She discussed what she knew of tribal relations with the Emperor, didn't manage to irritate the Emperor's Liu watchdog, worked with Changchang. The Fires of God medallion slipped out from beneath her collar at one point, but nobody commented on it, and if they'd noticed it, nobody cared enough to catch her eye.

Lan Fan wiped the suds out of her ears, and dropped onto the chair by her bed. Peizhi was awake, for once, and looking at her with sharp, wary eyes. He was, she realized, a lot like Changchang. Maybe that was why they managed to get along so well. "Your horse is a demon," she told him, and wrung her hair out over the towel again.

His lips tightened. "She's worse when you're on her back."

"I'm talking about when I'm on her back," she told him, and Peizhi went back to staring at her. Lan Fan ignored it, hanging the towel up over the nearest closet door. Niu Lu wasn't there; she must have gone to get something for Peizhi, or to finish a chore, and not expected Lan Fan back for at least another hour. Considering how long it had taken to ride Changchang out the day before, it wasn't entirely unexpected. She ducked behind the nearest changing screen and let the robe drop. She could just barely see Peizhi over the top of the screen; he'd turned his face away, embarrassed, she supposed. Lan Fan began to work on her chest wrap, over and under and through, and said, "How are you feeling?"

He grunted. He looked much better. The color was back in his face. He was still very underweight, and of course he would be; he'd barely been in her rooms a few days, and it would be months for him to gain the sort of weight he needed. She wasn't sure she would be able to convince him to stay long enough to get it, though, even with Changchang here. She'd be lucky to get him to stay a week. She tucked the end of the bandage into the rest of the wrap, and groped around for her pants.

"You're going to go back to Xuanwu," she said. "Aren't you?"

That startled him. Peizhi turned his head, looking right at her, and even when his ears turned red, he didn't look away. "Why would I?"

"Because I didn't think you'd want to stay here," she replied, and yanked a shirt down over her head before coming out from behind the screen. "Do you want to?"

"No," he said, too fast, and then coughed. "I mean, no, miss—milady."

" _Please_ don't call me that—"

"'m callin' you that," he said, grumpily, and she caught herself smiling, just a little bit. Almost in spite of herself—she was sure, after all, that he would be heading back to Xuanwu as soon as she let him get out of bed—she found herself liking Peizhi. He reminded her, in odd ways, of Edward Elric.

"'m not someone who can stay here. Milady." He traced his fingers over the back of his cast hand. "'m too dirty. You're foreign, milady, so you won't get it, but people like me don't come into the palace, not for work, not for nothing."

"Not for anything," she corrected absently, and took the chair again, crossing her legs and watching him. He frowned.

"Not for  _anything_. We don't…we're not good enough. I—I 'preciate what you did for me, milady, for me and Changchang, and I'll pay you back someday, I swear I will, but I can't—"

His voice trailed off. Lan Fan watched him for a moment. He seemed to be serious—about paying her back, or leaving, or both, but he was watching her like he was waiting to be hit. She let out a breath. "I am not one of the imperial pet-catchers, Peizhi. I won't trap you here when you feel well enough to go. That was not my intention in bringing you here."

He shifted, uncomfortable. "I know."

Lan Fan let out a little breath. "I wish you would believe me."

Peizhi stayed silent, and Lan Fan played with the medallion around her neck. This was why she never wore necklaces; she was very, very bad about tangling her fingers in them. "The end of next week," she said, and he looked up at her again, his eyes widening with something almost like hope. "I want Gao Bai to come and check to see if you're all right. And then I'll take you back to Xuanwu."

"What about Changchang?"

"If you have a place to keep her that won't whip her with blades, then she can go with you. If you don't, she'll stay with me, and I'll make sure you'll be able to come back to see her." Somehow, she would manage it. "In return you'll eat everything we give you, do the exercises and baths that Niu Lu asks you to without complaint, and you  _will_ keep sleeping in this bed. If I catch you trying to sleep on the floor, I will break your head again."

He ducked his head. "Yes, milady."

"And you'll stop calling me that, because if you keep doing it I might forget where I came from." He peeked up at her through his bangs. She made a mental note to cut his hair. "Deal?"

"Yes, mil—yes, mistress."

"Feiyan."

"Mistress Feiyan," he said, stubbornly. Lan Fan bit back a sigh.

"We'll work on it."

"Hey," Peizhi said, as she stood, went to her shelf, and grabbed a book Xinzhe had pushed on her. "What necklace is that?"

Every hair on hre body stood up. Lan Fan turned, and looked at him. Peizhi was watching her again, carefully this time, not in fear, as though he'd just added something to a puzzle he couldn't finish. She turned deliberately back to the shelf, and took down the book. "I found it," she said. "Why? Do you recognize it?"

"Recognize?"

"Know."

"I don't  _know_ it," he said. "Dunno what it means. But Xiaoqing wears one. Did she give it to you, Mistress Feiyan?"

"No," said Lan Fan. She dropped down into her chair again, and opened the book. "No, she didn't. Now go to sleep."

"'m tired of sleeping."

Of course he would be. Lan Fan looked down at her book again, and the Fires of God necklace she shared with Xiaoqing of Xuanwu. Then she set the book aside, and drew her knees up against her chest. "Then," she said, "tell me about how you met Changchang."

She only heard half the story. She was thinking: about assassins' blades, and about fire, and about bakers in the slums with medallions around their necks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> The name "Thamasq" is based in part off of the original Arabic pronunciation (at least, in Egyptian Arabic) for the city of Damascus, which, transliterated, is al-damashq.
> 
> Sorry for the wait, and for some of the contradictions that have come forward in my attempt to make things more ecologically logical.
> 
> Also, Lan Fan has not forgotten that she has to meet up with Mingli Chen. She's just thinking about other things at the moment.


	10. Cyanide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Bynn the Breaker," from the _Bastion_ soundtrack.  
>  "Dragon," by Kiyoshi Yoshida, from the album _Matsuri_.

**Nine: Cyanide**

_Louqu peach groves at noon._

No date. No signature. Nothing about the paper that made it stand out in any way. Lan Fan struck a match, and watched Alphonse's message curl into ash. She'd had to leave it in the waterproof compartment to her automail until now, a secret burning up her arm, and now that she'd finally read it, she wasn't entirely certain what to make of it.

He had to have worked it out. Well, most of it, anyway. She doubted Commander Yao had told him much of anything, but Alphonse was more intelligent than most people seemed to give him credit for; he would have put everything together by now, even without Princess Chang's help.

Going to meet him would be dangerous, even in such an innocuous place as the peach groves. If she was seen leaving the palace, if she was seen  _with Alphonse_ , alone …it could ruin everything. Her reputation, most certainly, would be ruined if anyone found out. If she was followed by someone from the Feng, the entire mission could be compromised, because why would Feiyan Ma, even as a barbarous nomad, be meeting a foreigner who half the court thought was sleeping with Princess Chang?

He would know that meeting would be dangerous, for her  _and_ him, for as an Amestrian with a visa he was liable to be deported if he did something like collude with a spy. Even if that spy  _was_ imperial. Even if he was personally known by the Emperor. Master Ling wasn't the sort to bend laws, not in that sort of situation anyway. And if he did, then Lan Fan (if she hadn't already been captured) would be drawn under suspicion. No, if they were caught, the Emperor wouldn't be able to do anything to save them. So then why would Al ask? For a reason, she supposed, because no Elric did anything without a reason. He wouldn't have asked her to risk everything for just a meet and greet. Which begged the question, why hadn't he just told Commander Yao when they'd met to let Alphonse know of her position?

Lan Fan scooped the ash into her palm and let it fly out the window. Outside in the Bamboo Gardens, water gurgled. Peizhi was awake again; she could hear him talking with Niu Lu about his job as a jockey, and how good he'd been before an actual race. She wasn't due to meet Chen until four-thirty, for whatever reason, and it was only ten-thirty. To get to the peach grove…forty minutes, but she would want to go early to try and figure out if this was a trap. If she was going, she had to decide now.

Lan Fan drew a breath, and let it out. She looked out into the Bamboo Gardens. No one seemed to wander the gardens here, not in any of the Imperial Wings. Not unless they were courting. She dropped down onto the wooden walkway around the edge of the gardens, crossing her feet at the ankles and dipping her toes into the natural spring that was right next to her door. Xiaoqing and her Firebrand medallion. Alphonse Elric's message. Peizhi and the Feng. She had to collect Xiaoqing from the Autumn Moon Inn, so she could visit Peizhi, so she'd already been planning on going out.

 _I wonder_ …

"Niu Lu," she said, and within a minute, Niu Lu had stuck her head out of the door. Lan Fan turned, keeping her toes in the water. "I'm going to be going out for a few hours. If anyone comes looking for me, tell them I'll be back by three."

"I understand, my lady." Niu Lu tilted her head. "Where should I say you have gone?"

Lan Fan drew one knee up against her chest. Then she stood again. The Bamboo Garden had an open roof, no glass ceiling like the other imperial gardens did, and no one would be in their rooms at this time of day. When she tentatively ducked into the Dragon's Pulse, she could feel no one in the courtyard but herself, Niu Lu, and Peizhi. She turned back to Niu Lu.

"To see a friend," she said. "Would you bring me my cloak and shoes, please?"

Niu Lu lifted an eyebrow, and followed Lan Fan's gaze up to the rooftops. Then a secret smile quirked her lips. "You know," she said, "I think I can do more than that."

* * *

There were never any guards on the rooftops in the Eastern Ward of the Imperial City. Lan Fan scrabbled down into a kitchen garden near Baihumen, pulled her boots on again, and pulled her long jacket tighter across her chest. It was only just hitting the end of September, and even though humidity was still high and it was more likely to monsoon than snow, there was a chill in the air that would settle close to her bones if she wasn't careful.

The Upper Baihumen was unique among all the Upper Gates in that there was a general entrance and a service entrance, and at the service entrance, no one looked too hard at a girl, even if she was trying to be inconspicuous. She forced her  _qi_ into submission, smiled at the guard as she passed, and fixed her spectacles (borrowed from Niu Lu, among other things) as she stepped through the gate. There was an alkahestrical circle inscribed under the door; she could feel it prickling through her boots as she walked over it. It had been a new measure that she herself had ordered: an alkahestrist on shift duty at every gate, but especially at Baihumen where service personnel could come freely in and out, with a circle that would activate at the drop of a hat to capture a fleeing assassin.

Her hair tickled her face. Niu Lu hadn't just given her glasses; she'd added a wig (Lan Fan now had hair as red as Niu Lu's), contact lenses (from black to green) and put enough  _lidschatten_ on Lan Fan's eyes to make the lids droop, not to mention changing her sensible slip-on shoes out for boots with three inch heels. "To confuse them about your height," she'd said. To her own great surprise, it had only taken two circles around her rooms for Lan Fan to get used to the shoes. It didn't mean she  _liked_ them, but she'd balanced on smaller points, and only on one foot, to boot. Three inches weren't going to do much to make her fall over.

Niu Lu had pulled out new clothes, too, straight from Amestris. Dress trousers, a button-down shirt, and a soft green cardigan that matched her contacts. She'd painted Lan Fan's nails red, put blush onto Lan Fan's cheeks, sharpened her cheekbones, added a touch of color to her lips. She'd even changed the color of Lan Fan's eyebrows with an alkahestrical comb. It had taken the better part of thirty minutes to get it done, but when Niu Lu had given Lan Fan a mirror, she almost hadn't recognized herself. It was, she thought, a good idea for a disguise. At least this way she wouldn't be recognized, even if she  _was_ clambering over rooftops. Still: Lan Fan stopped in at the first costume shop she saw in Louqu, and bought a mask. As valuable as makeup could be in the right hands, she couldn't do it herself, and she wouldn't be able to depend on Niu Lu to hide her identity, especially it was on the fly.

Her new mask she liked. It wasn't the same as her Yin mask, but it was beautiful nonetheless: cream and soft pewter blue in a dancing dragon pattern, heavy and cool. The eyeholes were big enough, too. She tucked it into her bag before leaving the shop. She'd found a loose floorboard underneath her bed the day before she'd gone to the Sevens Race with the Fengs; she could keep it there, along with her blades, until she had use of it.

Spirits buoyed, she turned onto the Street of the Weavers.

The peach groves were on the outskirts of Louqu, one of the handful of agricultural centers within Xinjing that wasn't controlled by the forester guilds. It was an independent grove, founded by a cousin of an emperor eight or nine or ten generations ago, and the trees were gnarling and crooked and dappled with the sweetest peaches she'd ever tasted. She could remember sneaking out of lessons with Master Ling when they'd been children, and running straight to the Louqu groves, hiding up in the tallest branches when guards came after them. (Her grandfather had always known where they were, and the only way people could get them to come home was to send Fuu. Huian Yao had not been pleased, but it had been the way of the world, back when they were young and stupid.) Lan Fan scuffed her hand over one of the trunks by the gate, and flexed her automail wrist. She'd broken her left wrist falling out of this one. The arm she'd sacrificed in Amestris. She touched a knob on the trunk with her metal fingers, and then moved on.

At the crest of the hill, there was a bench, and it was here that Lan Fan settled. She could see most of Xinjing from here, from Louqu and the rest of the Western Ward all the way to the Trade Gate in the Eastern Ward, where nomads, Amestrians, Aerugans, and all other foreigners (or, at least, non-Xingese) made their way into the Imperial City. She crossed her legs, opened the book she'd brought with her— _Alchemy and Rasayana: A Comparative Study in Six Parts by Edward Elric, ._ —and settled in for the wait.

"Since the Gathering is in two weeks, there are bunches of foreigners coming into Xinjing. Now that trade has been opened with Amestris, a lot of them are…unique," Niu Lu had told her. "If you're lucky, people will mistake you for one of them. Getting back into the Imperial City is going to be more difficult than getting out, since you don't have identification, but it should be simple enough for you to figure something out."

Lan Fan went to bite her lip, and then realized she was wearing lipstick and stopped herself. She checked the watch on her wrist. Ten minutes to noon. Moving in heels had taken more time than she'd anticipated, even if she'd only nearly slipped once, not to mention that she'd had to double back a few times to make sure she wasn't being followed.

She was miles out of the Imperial City. No one knew her here. Lan Fan let out a deep breath, and then released her  _qi_ , diving so deep into the Pulse her lungs clenched up. She hadn't done this in  _weeks_ ; it felt as though she'd been traveling through a desert with no water, not being able to use her  _qi_ sense.

Her grandfather had called it unique, or near enough; it had been one of the only reasons a female bodyguard had been chosen to tend to Master Ling, especially in a family like the Yao, which, while not being old-fashioned in the strictest sense, tended to pair royal and guard by sex and not by talent. Most of the Huo hadn't even wanted to train her. A nomadic girl fresh off the border wars, orphaned, laconic, and with no real training—of course they hadn't wanted to take her in. The first day Grandfather Fuu had taken her into the training yard and asked her to try and sense  _qi_ , she'd rattled off the names and locations of every single person she knew in the Huo compound without hesitation, and then told him that there was a group of people waiting at the front gates, more than forty yards away. She'd scared the living daylights out of him. Out of a lot of the Huo, actually, she remembered; people had avoided her eyes for a while after that.

It had been the first time she'd realized that not everyone was like her, and could feel where people were without ever seeing them. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been able to do it. It had made her a good hunter, in the few times her father had taken her out with him on his hunts; she'd always been able to tell him where the beasts were. When the raiders had come, she'd known where to hide, known when to run, because she'd been able to sense the gaps in their patrols and known where to go to avoid them. She'd made her way to Yao-guo that way, just through her own senses, and she'd been so exhausted by the time she'd collapsed on the doorstep of the Huo that she hadn't been able to sense anything for a week. The sense of blindness had been so stifling she'd spent most of that time on the edge of panic.

She couldn't explain it. The Pulse had just always been there. She hadn't even known its name until her father had told her on her fourth birthday, but she'd always been able to feel it. The world was painted in gleaming shades of gold when she closed her eyes. To cut off her connection to the Pulse, to smother her  _qi_ —it felt as though she was strangling herself. There had been people like her in the Huo before, but not for generations. Natural sensors. Her grandfather's great-grandfather had been one. Fuu had theorized that it was the combination of latent talent in the Huo bloodline with the exceptional potential held within the nomads that had produced her, who could not only sense humans, but birds, beasts, and trees. She could run through a forest blind and not hit anything, and when she practiced, she could find and track anyone within a mile radius.

If she practiced, anyway.

Lan Fan let out a breath, and began to sort. First was the energy that went into the grass, the trees: greeny-gold  _qi_  that crackled under her feet and hummed in the air. The breeze tasted of silver on her tongue. Deep threads of life tangled around the trunks of the peach trees, in their roots. Leaves shuddered on the edges of her worldsense. She breathed, in for seven seconds, out for eleven, and then shifted up to the next level. There was a collection of mice living in a curl under one of the roots of the oldest peach tree, with babies. A crew of swallows in the branches over her head felt her creeping over them, and startled, taking flight. Worms in the dirt, little curls of gray. She'd always liked worms; they sensed her, and just moved on, because there was nothing they could do to change her being there. The grove gardener, down the hill and to the south of her, was trimming the branches of a dying tree. There was a sickness at its heart that couldn't be fixed. Better to pull it up and burn it before it infected the others. She made a mental note to tell him, and moved on.

Stray dogs running along the fenceline. A pair of tomcats hissing and spitting in an alley. Humans, a great swirling cacophony of them. Old, young, male, female, a tangle of gold and black threads in the web of her consciousness. She sorted through them carefully, pulling each thread straight in her mind.  _So many people in such a small space._  But this was Xinjing. She couldn't expect anything else.

She sensed Alphonse coming up the hill before she ever saw him. He wasn't being followed that she could tell; no one trailed after him. There was no one in the grove besides her and the gardener, anyway. She stayed deep in the Dragon's Pulse. There was a ley line beneath the grove, which, she realized, was the reason why the peach trees grew so strong and their fruit was so sweet. They were getting a great deal more  _qi_ than anyone could have expected. It wasn't a bad thing, just something she'd never thought about when she'd first started tracing all of the Pulse points in the city onto the map in her mind. There was one right underneath the Peony Pavilion, too; probably why Master Ling had chosen it as his personal chambers.

She was too far away to sense the Emperor.

In for seven. Out for eleven. Alphonse sat down on the other end of the bench, and she knew he could feel her in the Pulse, because he didn't say anything. She thought he might be watching her. Lan Fan rose slowly, breathing deep. She knew her city again, and her place in the world.  _Qi-_ sensing wasn't a particularly helpful talent if one didn't want to become an alkahestrist. She didn't have a clue how to manipulate the energy of the earth, and didn't want to know. It was enough, she thought, just to see it; to feel the strings of the world wrapping around her limbs and knowing that she was part of a whole that was always changing. As a bodyguard, she didn't need to know any more.

She opened her eyes to find Alphonse staring at her with his lips parted and his eyes shining. If she hadn't still been reeling from the Pulse, she would have blushed. As it was, she just blinked at him, slowly. "What?"

"How deep did you  _go_?" He reached forward, put his thumb and forefinger against her cheek, and peeled her eyelid back, staring at her. Lan Fan nearly jerked back until she realized he wasn't trying to muss her makeup; he was checking her pupil for dilation. "I couldn't even feel you until the last few seconds of it. You never said you could do anything like that." His eyebrows snapped together. "And nobody ever sensed it, either. Have you been masking?"

"I would think that would be obvious."

"Won't that mess with your bodyguard perceptions, or something?"

"Even with my  _qi_ cloaked, I can…" The words tasted funny in her mouth. "I can sense alchemical and alkahestrical circles. I can tell if something is dangerous. I can sense individuals, if I focus. It's difficult to do the last one with the mask on, though, so I try not to."

Alphonse's mouth puckered in a silent whistle. "Why aren't you an alkahestrist? I don't think even Mei can go that far, you should tell her—"

"No." Lan Fan pulled back from his hand. "No. I don't—please don't tell her."

"Why not?"

Lan Fan shook her head, the bangs of her wig falling in front of her eyes. "Just…don't. Please don't." She had come this far without anyone other than her grandfather and now, Alphonse, knowing how far she could fall into the Pulse. She didn't want Mei Chang in on it, too. "I'd rather she not know."

He goggled a bit. "But—but I don't think I've ever felt anyone who can go that deep, not in all the time I've traveled in Xing. Lan—Lanette," he corrected quickly. "With that ability, you could be an incredible alkahestrist. You could—"

"I'm not becoming an alkahestrist."

"But—"

"I won't," she said again, and her voice cracked and went sharp. Al closed his mouth abruptly, looking at her, and Lan Fan glanced away, staring very hard at the nearest peach tree. "Please understand, Alphonse. I have no intention of or interest in becoming an alkahestrist. I never have, and I never will. I'm happy where I am, in what I'm doing, without it. Please don't ask me about this again."

He stared at her. Then he glanced away. Lan Fan peeked at him out of the corner of her eye, and she saw his mouth soften. He let out a long sigh, and then laughed a bit, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Okay," he said, and she relaxed, her clenched hands relaxing on her knees. "I won't tell Mei. Or anyone, if you don't want me to. It's just…it's incredible, Lan Fan. You have a gift."

Lan Fan blushed, and looked down at  _Alchemy and Rasayana._  Her gloves were making her fingers itch. "Not really." Then she turned to him, embarrassment dying, and said, "What did you want to talk to me about, Alphonse?"

His face darkened. Alphonse turned to face the city again, and Lan Fan looked down at her book. She had never expected, when Master Ling had ordered it, that Edward Elric would ever have the patience to sit down and write a book, let alone a book in six parts, even if it  _was_ about alchemy. Then again, she thought, the Elric brothers had always managed to surprise her. Al pulled his own book out of his coat pocket—a notebook this time, with a pencil stuck in between the pages—and started to sketch the view of the city, not looking at her. Lan Fan turns the page.  _–tendency of alchemists to view the world from one specific point, like a king of a small island, without ever realizing that that island is just one part of a much larger archipelago. Drawing on the Unifying Principle of One Is All-_

"The Fengs are looking for an alkahestrist."

Lan Fan's fingers tightened against the page. She swallowed, and thought of Lien Hua and Xinzhe, tucking their arms through hers.  _Even if you_ are _a horse-wife, you're not the bad sort at all_. "How do you know?"

He sketched out the clock tower, a gift from the Drachman embassy. "I had an appointment yesterday to talk to an alkahestrist named Hong Jingfei. I misjudged distances, so I showed up thirty minutes early, and there was somebody already talking to her, a man in a cloak. He was asking about prices for something, I didn't hear. Miss Hong didn't want to contract with someone who kept his face hidden, and she said so, and the man took his hood off. It was one of the Fengs. I don't know which one. He gave her an envelope and told her he'd be back, and then he left. I had to run to make sure he wouldn't see me, and so I circled around and came back half an hour later for my appointment. Miss Hong had already hidden the envelope. I couldn't find it anywhere."

Lan Fan drew a breath, slowly. She let it out. Coincidence? Maybe. A pretty huge coincidence, that a Feng—Xinzhe or Dong Mao, whoever it had been—would be visiting the exact same alkahestrist that Alphonse Elric had an appointment with. A trap, maybe, to see if she did anything? They wouldn't necessarily know that she had any connection with Alphonse, even if they  _had_ seen her talking with him at Mei Chang's party last night. He'd been talking with a lot of people, and she'd been sitting on her own and out of the way and looking very much the wallflower. She turned the page in her book. "You're sure it was a Feng?"

"Absolutely. Voice, face, everything."

Lan Fan bit down on her thumbnail before remembering that there was nail polish on it. "Could be a false lead. Or a trap."

He flipped a few pages back in his notebook, at another sketch, another day in the city as seen from the peach groves. "Or both. But I had to tell you. In case it…wasn't."

"Yes." She licked her lips, and tasted lipstick. "Thank you, Alphonse."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Lan Fan pretended to read Edward's book, and dove back into the Pulse, following all the veins in the earth she could. It took another hour for her to surface, content in the idea that they really weren't being watched. Alphonse was watching her again, less obviously this time, and he looked away when she caught his eye.

"Do you like it?" he said. "What you're doing."

"Not particularly." She tapped her fingernail against the cover of  _Alchemy and Rasayana_. "I'm not suited to playacting."

Alphonse laughed. "It doesn't sound like much fun."

She couldn't help it. She smiled a bit. "It is…interesting."

"I see." He brushed strands of his hair out of his eyes. Gold. For some reason it made her think of all the euphemisms alkahestrists used for immortals— _the golden man, the perfect human_ —and wondered if they hadn't, for all those centuries, really seriously had it wrong. The only way to be perfect was to be human, because true perfection was in the flaws one could find and love anyway. She wondered what Mei Chang thought about that.

"Lanette," he said, and Lan Fan blinked at him. "Are you all right? You seem kind of…quiet."

"Do I?" Lan Fan said. "I don't mean to be."

"It's not bad," Alphonse said, hurriedly, waving his hands. "Really. It's just…You weren't like this before."

"I was fifteen." She gave him a look. "And  _you_ were fourteen. We were fighting a war. I don't think either of us are much like what we were before."

"Duly noted." He tapped his pencil against the notebook. "Still, you seem…I don't know how to put it. Like a knot. I don't know. Tied too tight. Are you sure you're okay?"

Lan Fan thought of her grandfather, and the grave she wouldn't be able to see for eight more months. She thought of her master, and the secret meeting on the rooftop. She thought of the medallion hanging hot around her neck.

"I'm fine," she said, and smiled. "Please don't worry about me, Alphonse. And please, don't ask to meet again. I can't afford the risk."

He studied her for a long moment. Then Al grinned, sudden and bright, and offered his hand. "All right," he said. "But at the end, you're gonna tell me  _all_ of it. And if I get pulled into it later, don't get grumpy about it."

"I wouldn't be grumpy," she said. "I'll just lock you up until it's over, if that happens."

"Ouch." But he was laughing. She took his hand, shook it twice. Then she stood, and walked away without looking back.

She only crushed her  _qi_ -senses into submission at the bottom of the hill, and the beacon that was Alphonse Elric went out, like a candle snuffed too soon. The world closed itself to her with an echoing snap.

Lan Fan put a hand up to the stump of her arm, and kept walking.

* * *

She'd brought a change of clothes in her bag. As soon as she found a bathhouse worth her time, Lan Fan paid for a private room, and slowly disassembled the disguise of Lanette the Amestrian scientist, wiping off makeup, taking out contacts, and carefully stowing the wig in her bag, hoping she didn't damage it. She was in and out within ten minutes, fixing the mask over her face—the world felt safer when she viewed it from behind porcelain—and she took to the rooftops like an old lover. No one in Xinjing looked up at rooftops,  _especially_ not in the middle of market-day. Besides: even if someone did see her, they would only see her mask.

The Autumn Moon Inn was fairly empty, considering the hour. Something had died under the floorboards, she thought, tucking her mask back into her bag and shimmying down the back wall. Woodsmoke, stew, and rot. There was a stable across the street, the one where Peizhi worked, maybe. The East Xuqu Stables.

 _That's about as creative as Amestris. East City, North City, West City, Central…_ She snorted. A man who was working on mucking one of the stalls out heard her, and glared at her. She wondered if he had been the one to whip Changchang, and deliberately turned her back on him.

Inside, the inn was cleaner than she expected. There were only two or three people, regulars probably, because they all turned to look at her with guarded eyes when she walked in and shut the door behind her. Most of Xuqu hadn't yet been set up with either gaslights or electricity, so the smoke from the woodstove and the candles made her eyes water. Lan Fan cursed her allergies (there were certain kinds of incenses that could no longer be burned in the palace, thanks to her nose) and closed her eyes to keep herself from sneezing. When she took a table, and didn't head to bother anybody, the creeping feel of the room only seemed to get bigger.  _Don't like newcomers, huh?_  She thought, and drew the medallion out from under her shirt, letting it hang in the air, glinting in the firelight.  _I wonder._

There was a shiver of movement in the corner. It was a Bai Long Quan, one of the hunting dogs favored by the Bai family in the mountains. Curly white fur, mopey eyes. It had to be getting old, because the way it moved reminded her of her great-grandfather, still creaking around the Huo complex at nearly ninety-seven years old. A bitch, she realized. Its right ear was clipped.

The bitch sniffed at her metal hand for a moment. Lan Fan lowered her voice, bending down a little. "I'm sorry. I don't have anything."

The Bai Long bitch nudged her automail palm anyway. When Lan Fan didn't react, it settled its head on her thigh, and made a noise like a mouse being stepped on. She didn't shove the dog away. She might have broken it if she had; old and fragile things had a tendency to shatter when she touched them. Lan Fan hesitated, and then dug her metal fingers into the skin behind the dog's ears, scratching a little. Dogs didn't generally like her, and she didn't generally like them, no matter how useful they were.

The raiders that had come after the Nohin had brought dogs.

"Can I help you with somethin'?"

Lan Fan jumped. She hadn't sensed a single thing, but there was suddenly someone sitting beside her that hadn't been there before—a burly Qarashi man, headscarf and all. He was maybe fifty, maybe sixty, with a bristling mustache and a Cao clan tattoo arcing over his cheek. It was cheaper, though, than an inner family tattoo. The colors were duller, the phoenix less patterned. A throw-off, then.  _I wonder if Aiguo knows he has a half-Qarashi cousin in Xuqu_. She decided against telling him. If he knew, he might just burn down the Autumn Moon with his long-lost cousin inside.

The Cao man's eyes flickered to the medallion, and then up to her face. He licked his lips. "Don't see many of you around here, firestarter."

 _Firestarter._ Considering the Fires of God were relatively unknown outside of Feng-guo (or appeared to be, anyway; Lan Fan had never heard of them, at the very least) the fact that this man seemed to know about them unsettled her. "I came to see Xiaoqing, if that's all right." The bitch was drooling. Lan Fan ran her fingers down its neck, once, twice. "I needed to talk to her about something."

The man's shoulders loosened just a bit at Xiaoqing's name, but his eyes were still fixed on her face. "What's a lady like you wantin' to talk to Xiaoqing for?"

"Leave off, Baba," Xiaoqing said. She wiped her floury hands on her apron, her eyes flicking from her father to Lan Fan and back. She wasn't wearing her veil. She had a prettyish, heart-shaped face, with full lips and a wide nose. There were laugh lines around her mouth. "I told you about her, remember? The Ma lady. She helped Peizhi during the Sevens Race, when he managed to get himself kicked."

Xiaoqing's father— _how did such a brawny man spawn such a slender daughter?_  she thought, and then scowled at herself for being rude—gave Lan Fan a long hard look. Then he clapped his hands over his knees, and stood. Xiaoqing said something to him in Qarashi, and he touched her cheek, briefly, before disappearing back into the kitchen. Xiaoqing studied Lan Fan for a moment, and then finally noticed the Bai Long bitch, and smiled.

"Fu, no." She pulled the dog back by the collar. Lan Fan felt like she'd been pierced through the heart; she nearly staggered. Her stump was hurting again.  _Rain soon_ , she thought, distantly.  _It's going to rain soon, Grandfather._ "Sorry. She's old, and forgets her manners whenever she likes.  _Bad_ girl, Fu."

Considering Xiaoqing had her arms around the bitch's neck and was ruffling her ears, Lan Fan didn't think Fu would get the message. "Why'd you name her Fu?" she said, and if her voice was a bit raspier than usual, Xiaoqing didn't notice.

"My dad's old bitch whelped on a lotus farm. Fu was the runt, but she was smarter than the rest; she knew not to chew on the flowers. Didn't you?" She tugged on Fu's ears one last time, and then stood. "Shall we go outside?"

"I thought I could take you to see Peizhi, if you wanted. You said you were free on Saturdays."

Xiaoqing smiled. Then her eyes dropped to Lan Fan's throat, where the pendant rested, and she went white. Her hand flickered around her throat, and she swallowed. Lan Fan blinked at her, and then covered the medallion with her automail hand. "Sorry. Is this bothering you? I can put it away—"

Xiaoqing stared at her. Then she swallowed again, hard. "I think," she said, "we had better talk upstairs for a while."

Lan Fan twisted the chain of the medallion between her flesh fingers. "All right."

It took two taps on the ceiling with a heavy broomstick for someone to open the trapdoor and slide the ladder down. Not a perfect system, she thought, but considering most inns, in Xuqu and elsewhere, had stairs and not a trapdoor on the ceiling, it worked better than expected. She wondered, as she climbed up the ladder behind Xiaoqing, why they'd picked the trapdoor. If it had come with the inn, or if they had installed it especially, in case someone tried to get at the second floor, where Xiaoqing and her father's family were sure to live. She thought of Xiaoqing's father's clan tattoo, and bit her lip. There were any number of Caos who would hate to hear that they had a half-blood in the family, especially a half-blood that was half-Qarashi.

Xiaoqing's mother had her veil on when Lan Fan clambered up through the trapdoor, but she moved like Xiaoqing did, deliberate and careful. There were a handful of children, too, two boys and another girl, and Xiaoqing snapped at them in Qarashi before sliding an iron bolt through the catch on the trapdoor. "This way," she said, and took her shoes off. Lan Fan copied her, and followed her down the hall, up a short flight of stairs, and into the attic.

"Sit," said Xiaoqing. "I can get you some tea, if you like."

"I'm fine, thank you." Lan Fan had stowed the medallion back under the collar of her shirt before climbing the ladder. It rested cold against her skin. "You have a lot of alkahestry books."

"I practice," said Xiaoqing, and dropped down onto her bed, crossing her legs. There was chalk on her dresser, for drawing circles, maybe. "For all you wear the medallion, Mistress Ma, you don't strike me as one of the Firebrands."

Lan Fan shrugged a little. "It's just something I found, and liked. The medallion, I mean. I didn't think it would startle you."

Xiaoqing frowned. Then she offered a hand. Lan Fan took off the medallion, and handed it to her, and as Xiaoqing turned it over between her fingers, Lan Fan said, "What does it mean? Is it a Cao thing?"

" _No_ ," Xiaoqing snapped. She studied the edges of the medallion, and frowned. "Funny. It doesn't open. Usually they do, so you can put your name inside. It must be newer."

"What's it for?"

Xiaoqing gave her a thoughtful look. Then she handed the medallion back. "You probably shouldn't wear that in public, Mistress Ma. The Firebrands can get a little possessive of their markers."

Lan Fan put the pendant back around her neck, and tucked it under her shirt. Xiaoqing propped her chin in one hand. "You really don't know what it means?"

"I've never heard of the Firebrands."

"Now I  _know_ you're from far away, because lots of people have heard of them down here." Xiaoqing closed her eyes. "A handful of years ago, there was a man near the eastern edge of Amestris named Shiloh Trener who wanted to become a state alchemist. He never passed the tests. He grew so desperate he fell ill with a fever, and he tossed and turned for forty days and nights, until finally the Sun God Leto descended on him and told him the truth: that he was the Son of God, and that it was his purpose to create a heaven on earth."

Lan Fan drew her knee up against her chest.

Xiaoqing's voice was lyrical, husky. She tapped a finger against her jaw. "The morning he woke up from his dream, the priest that ran the city of Liore had been exposed as a fraud, and a riot broke out in the city. Within a few weeks, the riots had turned into a full scale civil war. Many of the Letoists were killed; many more escaped in the middle of the night, going to stay with family, fleeing the country. Shiloh Trener was still sick, but his wife and father deeply believed in what Leto had told him in his dreams, and so they put him in a cart and they wheeled him out into the desert, where they hoped that they would find a place to found the Kingdom of God."

 _Or hoped that he'd roast to death with his fevered brain with him_ , she thought, but she kept her mouth shut. Lan Fan twisted the cord around her fingers. "He survived?"

"They founded another small village, filled with Letoists from all over the border nations." She swallows. "But when they tried to bring some of the more violent nomadic tribes to the fold, the whole village was massacred. Father Shiloh's father was killed, and his wife lost a leg. She has an automail one now, made with gold, but back then she had to make do with crutches and wood." Lan Fan's eyebrows rose, but she didn't comment. "They came further south, to Feng-guo, and there they founded a second village, called New Refuge, and Father Shiloh began to preach. He has quite a following now. All of them are going to be saved in the coming days by being brought with open arms into the Kingdom of God."

"The coming days?"

Xiaoqing's lips twisted, and she laughed. "Well, when the world ends, of course."

"The world ending? Did Trener see that too?"

"According to him it's been predicted for centuries." Xiaoqing opened her eyes. "He was just the first one to bring it to everyone's attention."

Lan Fan rested her chin on her kneecap. "Do you believe him?"

Xiaoqing didn't quite meet her eyes. She stood, and went to the window, pinning her veil back up over her face again. When she spoke, the silk fluttered against her lips. "I used to. When my family lived in New Haven, I did."

"You were a Firebrand?"

"My mother was a Letoist, and when she fell sick, she heard that Father Trener could lay hands on her and make her be well again. We joined the Firebrands while they were traveling to Feng-guo in 1914."

She felt dizzy, for some reason. "And you believed?"

"Back then I did. Until Mama died. My actual mother," she added, "not my stepmother. Baba had never really followed the tenets of the Firebrands, so when she died anyway he was more angry at Father Shiloh for giving us false hope than the religion itself, but I was…I felt betrayed. The god that I'd been told to trust everything to hadn't saved my mother. They said that she must have carried some moral contagion to be taken the way she was, but it couldn't have been. She was the purest person I knew."

Lan Fan dug her fingers into her calf, and frowned at the floor. "What did she die of?"

"Leprosy." Xiaoqing sighed. "We left New Haven. Baba married again when we came here. There's a strong ana-Qarashi presence in Xinjing; we fit in here. I still have the medallion Father Shiloh gave me." She gave Lan Fan a sidelong glance. "Would you like to see it?"

Lan Fan dropped both feet back to the floor, and nodded. Within moments, Xiaoqing had levered up a secret bottom to a drawer in her bedside table, and a coppery medallion, lighter, a little cheaper than the one Lan Fan wore, was pooled in her hands. There was a catch to this one. When Lan Fan opened it, there was a tiny chip of glass, and a slip of paper with characters on it.  _Xiaoqing Cao_.

"Everyone who lives in New Refuge gets one." Xiaoqing dropped back down onto her bed. "I wore that one until the night my mother died. I don't like looking at it anymore."

Lan Fan rubbed her thumb over the phoenix emblem. Not a Cao phoenix; those were two-headed and had snake tongues. This was an actual firebird, with sparking wings and a long peacock's tail. When she offered the necklace to Xiaoqing again, Xiaoqing ignored it, so Lan Fan stood and set it on the bedside table again.

"So," said Xiaoqing. "Are you going to tell me why you came to poke your nose into Firebrand business? It's not like a Ma woman from the steppes has any real interest in people like us."

Xiaoqing didn't look at her. She just waited, shoulders tense, and Lan Fan considered. Then she said, "A Firebrand tried to kill a…comrade of mine last night. I've never heard of them before now."

"Why come to me?"

"Peizhi said he saw your medallion."

She closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, and shut the window. "I see. It can't be helped really."

"If you could get me into a meeting of the Firebrands," said Lan Fan, "would you?"

Xiaoqing froze. Then she turned, and looked at her, and said, "That depends."

"On what?"

"On what you give me in return for helping you infiltrate the organization that destroyed my mother's life." Xiaoqing brushed past her, and opened the bedroom door. "I'd like to see Peizhi now, if I may,  _Mistress_ Ma."

Lan Fan nodded. After all, she knew as well as anyone that there was nothing as valuable as the life of a lost loved one. Nothing she had could match up to that.

She clenched her automail hand into a fist and followed Xiaoqing out without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming soon.
> 
> I hope Lan Fan's qi abilities are believable. As to why they weren't this extensive and useful in Amestris, she was five years younger, roughly. With practice comes accomplishments.
> 
> As to the differences between the AO3 posting and this one; I will let you guys know when there is something posted on AO3 that cannot be posted here, so don't kill yourselves seeking out differences between this one and the AO3 version. You won't find any until I mention it.
> 
> The Gathering will begin the chapter...after next, I think. Maybe sometime next chapter. 楽しみにして待っててくださいね。


	11. Recurve Bow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: blood, violence, and vomit. (Lan Fan gets rough aw yeah)
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Samishige," from the _Mononoke_ soundtrack.  
>  "Doomed," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.  
>  "Amon," from _The Legend of Korra: Season One_ soundtrack.

**Ten: Recurve Bow**

"She's going to be all right, you know."

Ling began to turn, and then stopped himself. Alphonse Elric was watching him very,  _very_ carefully out of the corner of his eye. There was a look on his face Ling didn't like in the slightest. There was something decidedly knowing, decidedly  _pitying_ that reminded him of the looks that Heinkel and Darius used to give Ed when Ed waxed poetic—well, as poetic as someone like Ed Elric could get, which was gruff and sputtery and red—about Winry Rockbell. (He'd been watching through Greed's eyes almost constantly at that point, instead of being trapped in the box he'd been set in the first few weeks of sharing his body with the homunculus, and he'd laughed into his sleeve and wondered why Ed hadn't just admitted it already.) Actually, no: it didn't just remind him of those looks. It  _was_ that look.

He sipped his tea. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't." Al smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Then he turned his teacup around in his palm, over and over. Behind them, Shan Yao was arguing with Mei Chang again—he could hear the words _alkahestrical community_ and  _stupid plan_  being tossed around, so he was pretty sure it was still what they'd been fighting about over an hour ago: that is, whether or not Mei should dip her toe into investigating the Fengs' need for an alkahestrist. "You know," Al said, and Ling snapped back to him. "You're kind of horrible at lying."

"Excuse you." Ling frowned. "I'm  _excellent_ at lying."

"At a lot of things, sure, but not about this, and definitely not about Lan Fan."

Ling ruminated on that for a moment. Then he grinned. It was the "please, you have to be joking," smile; not one he used very often, but once you figured it out, that kind of smile was difficult to forget. "Your personality has somehow managed to get even more interfering since the last time we talked, Alphonse Elric. You might get worse than your brother, someday."

"And what's wrong with that?" Al sniffed. "If it means I can stop the people I care about from doing stupid things to themselves and to the ones they love, then I'll be as interfering as I like, thank you very much,  _Imperial Highness._ "

"Hey," Ling laughed, and somehow managed to ignore the way the phrase  _the ones they love_ rang like a struck bell from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. "Can you manage to say that in a way that doesn't sound like you're scraping something off your shoe?"

"Maybe if you stop being dumb." Al finished his tea, and set the cup on the bookshelf. "You're not getting past me, Ling. I've known you for ages. Anyway, anybody who saw either of you in Amestris would have been able to figure it out."

Ling hummed. Considering everything that had happened in Amestris, the idea that Al had decided to fixate on the romantic inclinations (or lack thereof) of his companions would have surprised him, if it hadn't been Al. He turned, and cast a side-eyed look at Mei. "Speaking of things that we've known since Amestris: just how is my sister, Elric?"

Al turned pink. "Mei is fine. Stop changing the subject."

Ling shrugged, and swirled his tea in the cup. Al sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one finger. "I know that the rules in Xing are…very different, in regards to how people think, and feel, and…love." He shifted uncomfortably. "Mei's told me about the Twelve Precepts of Heaven, but even if I hadn't heard about those I would know that there's more than just you two and your stubbornness keeping this in stalemate."

 _Stalemate_ , Ling thought. It wasn't quite the best sort of word for it.  _Stalemate_  implied that one of them had made a move in the first place. Instead it seemed as though they were the sort of ceramic statues that had been popular a few centuries ago, trapped in place, staring at each other, immobile and frightened of thoughts they could not acknowledge. He pressed his lips together. Alphonse went on. "There are rules, and there are laws and things, but I would have thought you of all people would have been the sort of person to not care about those. Besides," he added, leaning his back against the wall and tilting his head at Ling in half a question, half a judgment, "it's not just you that's being ridiculous, it's Lan Fan, too. I had to sit through years and years and  _years_ of my brother and Winry dancing around each other, don't make me suffer through you two as well."

Ling ran his forefinger along the curved line of the teacup. Mei was gaining ground—that, or she was shouting Shan down, and Shan hadn't quite figured out how to stop a petite imperial alkahestrist from getting her way without just sitting on her. His mouth quirked a little. "Lan Fan too, huh?"

Al blinked. "You mean you didn't know?"

"I would be lying if I said that." He would. He truly would. The look on her face on the rooftop, the way she'd gone so completely still, watching him with those eyes, joy and terror all in one. The way she talked around his name.  _Young lord. Majesty. Eminence. Master._  He closed his eyes, and rested his cup on the desk.

Of course he knew. Of course he'd known.  _I made her cry and I can never do anything about it._  He'd been so careful for so long to pretend  _not_ to know, the same as he'd pretended not to know himself, that it had simply settled itself into the very core of him. Somewhere inside, all that knowledge had spiraled together into one hard knot of impossibility, despite one, starkly indisputable fact.  _No one will ever mean as much to me as Lan Fan does. Whether it's as an ally, or something more, that will never, ever change_.

But even knowing that, there were lines. Lines he cared nothing about—how could he care about them, when they were the very thing he'd decided he would destroy?—and never had done. Lines that, for some reason, meant everything to her. And that, of course, was why there was one thing that had to remain impossible.

"Now isn't the time for this." He tucked his hands into his sleeves, and then clenched them into fists. "If you're wanting to play matchmaker, Al, go back to Amestris and talk to that colonel and his lady lieutenant. There's nothing you can do here."

Al flinched. "Ling—"

"You know nothing," said Ling, and his voice was low and fierce, the kind of voice he didn't use, not  _ever,_  because you could hear the rawness in it and rawness meant vulnerability and if there was one thing he could never afford to be, it was vulnerable. He stared at Alphonse Elric, and he let the helplessness and the frustration shine through. "You know  _nothing_ of us, nothing of her or of me."

"Li—"

"Do you think," he said, and he dropped his voice even further, tried to get the sudden broiling  _rage_ in him under control, "that if I could, I wouldn't have? Do you honestly think that of me? You know me too well for that."  _I was Greed personified. I could have done nothing less._  "But  _she doesn't want it_ , and  _that_ is what stays my hand. She is the rock my chain is leashed to, and always has been."  _My translation and my translator._ "Don't you dare lessen either of us by pretending that this is a matter of  _rules_."

Al looked as though he'd just been punched in the stomach. Ling turned away from him, drew a breath, and let it out, long and slow, the fury with it. There was still a hard little knot of rage in him, just under the skin, and he hid it behind a smile. "Mei. Shan. Stop being ridiculous and sit down. The hood is off our bird and the hunt is in progress.  _Please_ tell me you have something to smooth the way for her, even if it's only a little." He took a breath. "I won't have one of my most precious allies knifed in the back because we weren't able to keep up."

* * *

_13th October 1918  
3rd year of the Dawn Emperor_

She only noticed the Emperor was leaning against the fence when she rolled onto her back and spat the grass out of her mouth. Lan Fan swore under her breath, and stared up at the sky. It was slate gray today, with clouds billowing up from the south; a sea storm blown off course. It would start raining soon. Just in time for the Gathering, too.

He'd masked his  _qi_. Lan Fan scowled. He'd actually masked his  _qi_ until the moment she'd come off the horse, when he'd either been too worried or too amused to keep doing it. Why he'd mask his  _qi_ near her was a question that she couldn't answer—maybe he just hadn't wanted to distract her—but it irritated her that she hadn't even been able to sense a single glint of him. She needed to be better, if she was going to go back to being the Emperor's Shadow. She had to be able to see through tricks like that.

Then again, he, at least,  _knew_ all her tricks, and how to get past most of them. He was the Emperor, after all.

Lan Fan sat up, and picked grass out of her hair before getting on her knees and bowing. She could hear Changchang whuffing at the other end of the arena, cantering back and forth, tossing her head. She kind of wanted to throw a rock at the damn mare. Thankfully she'd been bareback, so she didn't have to worry about fixing the saddle. How she was going to get her hands on Changchang again, though, was an entirely different question. "Health and strength to your eminence."

"She threw you surprisingly far, considering." She could hear his voice shaking in his effort not to laugh. "Congratulations on airtime."

"Thank you, your eminence." She kept her hands tight on her kneecaps. She wasn't about to embarrass herself more by rubbing her aches. Her hips hurt from the rough cantering and her back from the third hard landing of the morning, and only a pair of sturdy gloves had kept her flesh hand from being flayed open by the rough twine bridle. (It was the only one Changchang would accept.) "I aim to please."

"The same, I think, as everyone else in this place." The Emperor leaned his elbows against the railing, watching Changchang. "It goes get tiring at times."

Lan Fan's brow furrowed. "What, the pleasing or the airtime?"

He blinked at her. Then he grinned, and Lan Fan felt her insides turn over, the way they always had when he grinned at her that way. "Was that a joke out of you, Lady Ma?"

She shrugged, and rolled back up to her feet. "If it was, majesty, I don't think that anyone will believe you. I find this…place to be entirely too heavy for joking around."

"You know, I think it was. Your whole face went softer as you said it,  _and_ you smiled. Not with your mouth, but with your eyes."

Lan Fan shrugged. The Emperor rested his chin on the back of one hand. "I don't think I've seen you smile, Lady Ma."

Behind her, Changchang exploded into a gallop, kicking and thrashing and just being generally idiotic. Lan Fan watched her for a moment, and then came to stand beside the Emperor, five feet away as tradition so carefully required. She leaned against the fence. "There are few things to smile about here, Imperial Majesty."

The Emperor's Shadow (something pierced her heart, quick and sharp as a needle) was hovering nearby. If she squinted, she could see him tucked into the shadows behind one of the outcroppings on the stable roof.  _Too far away to be of use_ , she thought, with a private, professional sneer,  _and too low to view the terrain properly._  Then she felt guilty, because what was the point of holding up a doppelganger to her own standards? It served neither her nor the doppelganger well at all, and it just made her feel small and petty and scared. She cleared her throat. "I apologize. That sounded…dissatisfied."

"Are you dissatisfied?"

"Not particularly." She drummed her fingers against her thigh. "Everything here has been…extraordinarily unique."

"Sounds ominous."

She flushed. "That wasn't what I—"

"I know. I'm only teasing, Lady. Don't worry so much."  _I'm only teasing, Lan Fan. Don't worry so much._  Lan Fan swallowed hard, and closed her eyes for a moment.  _Feiyan Ma_ , she told herself.  _I am Feiyan Ma._ And when she opened her eyes again, she was. Unfortunately, Feiyan Ma was only Lan Fan out of a mask, so it didn't help things very much.

He'd managed to get away with only the Shadow at his side. To see her? No, that was a silly, vain, selfish thought, not to mention inherently ridiculous. To get away from the pre-Gathering meetings, that was more likely. Considering the vast majority of them were with families that had tried to murder Master Ling, once upon a time, she could understand why he wouldn't exactly want to be in the same room with them, especially as they bowed and scraped and sharpened their knives behind their backs. "What brings you here, Imperial Majesty?"

"A desperation to cling to sanity." He gave her a sidelong look. "And you?"

"A desire to preserve hers," she said, and jerked a thumb at Changchang.

"Not going well, then?"

"It depends." Lan Fan crossed her arms over her chest. "She doesn't try to bite me when I go into her stall anymore. She just likes to toss me more often." She scowled at Changchang. "I think it's her own brand of vengeance."

There was a sputtering noise. Then the Emperor was laughing again, and she knew him well enough to know that this wasn't his fake laugh; this was the one that meant something. A little coal inside her chest kindled and glowed. He covered his mouth with one hand, but his grin was still peeking out from between his fingers. "I knew coming out here would make me feel better. I saw you from the window and wondered if it might not be that way."

The tips of her ears flushed. "I'm happy to oblige you, Imperial Highness."

They fell into silence, Lan Fan watching Changchang, the Emperor staring off into the distance. She let out a breath, and twisted her fingers into the chain of the Firebrand medallion again.

It had been two weeks since her meeting with Alphonse Elric, and despite her best efforts, nothing much had changed. She hadn't heard from Xiaoqing since she'd brought her to see Peizhi. Peizhi, as soon as his week was up, had been collected by Xiaoqing and her father, Owais; they were keeping him in the Autumn Moon until further notice, and frankly, Lan Fan couldn't see Xiaoqing letting Peizhi slip through her fingers again. The Fengs hadn't yet decided they were bored of her; she'd had a dove wake her this morning by dropping a sealed envelope on her head, a note from Lien Hua to inform her that they would be going to get clothes made for the Gathering's Opening Ceremony, and that she would be coming along to a) get her own robes made, because a  _deel_ was out of the question, and b) to provide an unbiased opinion. What sort of opinion, Lan Fan wasn't quite sure, but it didn't particularly matter, considering she was still being invited places.

Peizhi had yanked her aside before Xiaoqing and Owais had come to collect him, dressed in clothes that she'd found for him in her old trunk. They were too big for him, and baggy, but they still fit him better than what he'd been wearing before, and once the air started getting colder, they would give him a little extra padding so he wouldn't turn into an icicle. The sleeves had hung so far forward over his hands that even the tips of his fingers had disappeared. "Milady," he'd said, "Milady Ma," and she'd turned away from talking with Owais to find both hands stretched out, as if he had thought to grab her and then second-guessed himself. Lan Fan had glanced at Owais, and then crouched down to look Peizhi in the eye.

"Yes?"

He flushed a little, and scuffed a foot along the ground. He was barefoot. They hadn't been able to find shoes his size, and even then, she doubted he would have accepted them. Most people in Xinjing ran around barefoot regardless of whether or not they could afford shoes. Then he scowled at her, and pointed at her with his good hand. He really did have eyes like an Elric, she thought. Not gold, but the same exact fierceness. Like flame. "I'll repay you one day, lady," he said. "I swear it. I swear it on Changchang, I'll pay you back."

Lan Fan's lips parted. Peizhi glared at her, stuck his hands in his pockets, and said, "I swear it," one last time before scuttling off towards the gates. Xiaoqing had run after him.

For some reason, it was sticking in her head. The look on his face. It reminded her of the Elrics, but it also dug deep into her gut, a memory she couldn't shake.  _I'll pay you back for this_ , she'd said, her eyes on the coverlet, her grandfather sitting by her bed. She'd been so small, then, her wrists so tiny. The Huo tattoo on her hip had throbbed under the bandages.  _I swear it to you, honored grandfather. I swear I will repay you for this._

"Lady Ma," said Master Ling, and she blinked.

"My apologies, majesty. I was…thinking."

He waved that off. "I just wanted to ask you something, that's all."

Lan Fan tilted her head. "If I might be able to do something for you, majesty, I will. You don't have to ask."

"That's a dangerous thing to say." He drummed his fingers against the railing. "If I was to ask you to do something improper, you'd be bound by your word, then."

"You wouldn't ask me to do anything like that," said Lan Fan.

He blinked at her, slowly. Then the corners of his mouth twitched, and he hid his face behind his bangs. After a moment, he cleared his throat, and said, "I was actually going to ask you if you would be willing to accompany me on morning rides. The Gathering is…stifling at the best of times. I would appreciate a companion, and as you're a horsewoman, I thought of you first."

She swallowed her heart again. For some reason it had leapt up into her mouth. "Not my cousin?"

"I believe the Commander would get a little short with me if I asked his pregnant wife to go riding with me in the mornings."

"My cousin does as she wishes, Majesty." Still, if this offer was what she suspected, then it would make sense for Lan Fan to be the rider, and not Suyin. Suyin wasn't the spy amidst the Feng, after all. She bowed at the waist, giving him a nomad salute, left fist on her right breast. "But I would be honored to accompany you, if you so wish it."

"I would," he said, fervently, and let out a breath. "I was worried that you'd say no, and I'd be stuck with Jinhai Liu, and that would defeat the whole point." He shrugged. "If I'm trying to get away from the ministerial haberdashery of the Gathering, it doesn't make sense to bring one of them along with me to nag."

She hummed an agreement. Even if she had been Feiyan Ma, and not Lan Fan Huo, she had a feeling that she would have noticed how much the Emperor had disliked Jinhai Liu. He'd been insulting the assistant of an assistant of a financial minister so subtly that she'd thought she'd been imagining it until she'd noticed the slight mocking twist to his mouth. Lan Fan still wasn't quite sure if Liu had noticed at all.

On the opposite side of the arena, there was a snort. Then Changchang, ears forward, tail high, spun, and ran at them. It was something more than a gallop, more like an all-out sprint, and Lan Fan wrapped her fingers around the railing against her hips and waited. It wasn't the first time Changchang had decided to try this kind of intimidation technique, and it wouldn't be the last; it was best just to stand still and not present too much of a target. Besides, she was fast enough to get out of the way if she absolutely had to. At the very last second, when she could smell horse and cut grass and overturned earth, Changchang veered and cantered in a wide circle around her favorite tree. She had come so close that the ends of her trimmed tail had stung Lan Fan in the face. Lan Fan blew her bangs out of her eyes.

"Your temper tantrums are not appreciated," she told the mare, and Changchang actually  _pranced_. Her tail went up, her ears pricked forward, she picked up her feet, and she practically skipped across the arena, every inch of her radiating her self-satisfaction. Lan Fan couldn't help it. She snorted, and covered her mouth with her hand. If Changchang was willing to tease, that meant that at least she didn't quite see Lan Fan as a threat anymore. _Maybe I'm just a toy to toss around, now._

"I take it she hasn't done that before," said the Emperor. Lan Fan shook her head.

"I don't think she's been willing to play like that in a while."

"That was playing."

Lan Fan blinked at him, and for the first time realized that having a warhorse charge at you might be daunting if it hadn't happened to you before. Her throat closed up. "Your eminence, I'm so sorry, I didn't think—"

"It's fine." He raised a hand. "I've…definitely seen more intimidating things in my life. It just…took me by surprise."

She thought of Greed and Father, of Wrath and Pride, and held her tongue. Lan Fan licked her lips, and then said, "Please excuse me for a moment, your eminence."

He nodded. Lan Fan took off at a trot, cornering Changchang and seizing her by the reins. In the two weeks she'd spent working with Changchang, it had finally come to the point where the mare didn't _exactly_ shy away from her anymore. She had a feeling Peizhi had helped, even if it was only a little; maybe it had been the smell on Lan Fan's clothes when she'd first started trying to help Changchang, or maybe it had been Peizhi crawling into the stall the day before he'd left the Imperial City and whispering to Changchang for an hour, but the mare had…not quite softened, but loosened a little.

It didn't mean dealing with her had become any easier, though. Changchang sank her teeth into Lan Fan's metal fingers, and Lan Fan pinched her ear hard enough to make her squeal. "Stop it. You can't hurt them and all you're going to do is learn bad habits. There's a difference between being a warhorse and being rude."

"Do you think she can understand you?" Master Ling asked curiously, and Lan Fan blinked, because he'd jumped down off the fence and was coming to meet her by Changchang's tree.

Changchang snorted, and her eyes rolled once, but Lan Fan jerked on the reins again. " _Calm_ , Changchang." She made an apologetic face at the Emperor. "My apologies once again, Imperial Majesty. She mistrusts most men. I…believe the ones who mistreated her were male."

"I see." He stood for a moment, hands on hips, out of reach of Changchang's teeth, and watched the mare. Changchang snorted through her nose, and did an anxious little dance that nearly crushed Lan Fan's foot beyond repair. Lan Fan ran her human hand down Changchang's neck, digging her fingers into the flesh just beneath her mane, making soothing noises. Master Ling backed even further away, hands in his pockets, watching them quietly. Months, she thought. This would take months, fixing Changchang.

"It's all right," she said. "It's all right, Changchang. His Highness won't harm you. I promise you that."

Changchang was panting wildly. She swiveled her head so she could stare Lan Fan in the face, and Lan Fan stroked her cheek. "It's all right," she said again. "It's all right."

Then Changchang stepped on her foot, and Lan Fan bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she drew blood. It was only when Changchang had removed her foot and Lan Fan had remembered how to speak that she finally said, "I speak to her because I like to think it calms her. I don't know if that's true or not, but I like to think so. It…" She licked her lips. "It makes me think I can get through to her, someday."

He nodded, and for the first time Lan Fan realized that she was speaking to the Emperor, and she wasn't feeling guilty for it. Something hard and knotty, like a problem too big to solve, dropped into her stomach, and she turned away before he saw something in her face.

 _I am Lan Fan Huo_. She mouthed it to herself as she ran her fingers down Changchang's flank.  _I am the Emperor's Shadow. I am not Feiyan Ma._  She had slipped too deep into her own character, which was something she could afford to do with anyone but this man, her master who could probably read the tenseness in her shoulders and know exactly what had caused it. She swallowed her words back down.  _I must remember where I stand._

The fake Shadow had come forward to the railing of the arena, watching them carefully. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jian Zhang, too, standing in the doorway of the stable, smoking as always. The Fengs were there, she realized, and her heart bounced right back into her mouth again. Xinzhe was talking to Jian Zhang, but Lien Hua was watching her, his arms crossed over his chest. She couldn't tell at this distance, but she thought Lien Hua Feng might be smiling. Master Ling must have seen something in her face, because he glanced over his shoulder, and then looked back.

"I see I'm keeping you from your friends," he said. "And from your mare, it seems."

"No—" The word felt sticky in her mouth. "No, never, your eminence—"

"You don't have to lie to me, Lady Ma." He gave her a court smile. "As much as I would like to stay and talk to you, I actually do have things to do, so with this I will bid you a good afternoon. Shall we meet at dawn tomorrow?"

Lan Fan gulped. Something twisted in her stomach. She thought it might be frustration. Or, for some stupid reason, guilt. Then she bowed, her hair (which she'd braided that morning, sloppily) flopping forward over her shoulder. Changchang, for once, didn't take the opportunity to bite her in the ass. "Yes," she said. "Imperial eminence."

She kept her eyes lowered and her face closed until he disappeared around the corner of the stables, the Shadow with him. Lan Fan wrapped the reins tight around her metal hand, heaved herself back up onto Changchang (who squealed again and gave a hop to try and shake her off) and leaned forward to whisper right in the mare's ear.

"Don't ever let me be so stupid again."

Changchang reared her head back, and hit Lan Fan so hard in the nose she tasted blood. Lan Fan wrenched her head around, and set her to the gallop. If she was going to forget her place in the world today, at least she might help this horse relearn hers.

* * *

When Lan Fan finally dismounted, knees shaking, eyes smarting from the wind, Lien Hua tucked her arm through hers and shoved a handkerchief in her palm for the nosebleed. "You never responded to my dove this morning, so I came to find you," she said, as Lan Fan dipped the silk handkerchief into a horse trough and swiped at the crusted blood under her nose. "It's not like you have papers or anything to go over, so you can't say no. Besides, you haven't left the palace since we went to that stupid party, and I want your thoughts on something."

Lan Fan blew her nose twice, rinsed the handkerchief as best she could, and then wrung it between her hands. Then she folded it, carefully. "When?"

"Whenever you're ready. You stink of horse, so maybe bathe first." Lien Hua wrinkled her nose. "And don't worry about returning the handkerchief. I have another."

Lan Fan shoved it into her pocket. It felt damp against her legs. "Where will we be going?"

"There's a seamstress at the Feng house, so only to Zhuque." Xinzhe set his wrist against her shoulder. Not his hand, just his wrist, the vulnerable part with all the veins against the seam between girl and metal. Lan Fan had sensed him coming, so she didn't jump, but the touch startled her anyway. "Better bring backup, or Lien Hua will have you be her clothing critique for a decade. I think she wants your advice because you don't know any fashions. Since you're only a horse-wife, you can't tell her when she looks like a walking cake."

Lien Hua gave him a cyanide smile, and then drove her fan into the sensitive spot between his ribs. Xinzhe choked, and Lan Fan, seizing her chance, pulled away. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go untack my horse."

Lien Hua slid her arm through the crook of Lan Fan's, and set her lips to Lan Fan's ear. "Ignore my brother, swallow-girl," she said. Her breath was hot against Lan Fan's skin. "He likes to think he knows what he's talking about."

Xinzhe glared at Lien Hua. Lien Hua smirked back, until Lan Fan, as politely as she could, untangled herself. "I'll meet you in an hour," she said. "If you'll excuse me."

"Don't forget, swallow-girl," said Lien Hua, and winked before tucking her arm through Xinzhe's and pulling her brother away. For some reason, Lan Fan had the sense she'd just been outmaneuvered, but how, and why, she had no idea.

She bit her lip, and made her way back into the stable.

Changchang smacked her in the face again when Lan Fan took off the reins, and managed to nearly crush her against the wall of her stall before Lan Fan finally managed to wriggle free. She wasn't sure if it had been the approach or the emperor or something else entirely—she hadn't lied when she'd told Lien Hua that animals could key into the Dragon's Pulse with more acuity than any human after all—but it left her sore and aching when she finally limped back down to the tack room, and hung the bridle on the spare hook in the very back. She hadn't yet dared to try a saddle or a blanket or even a halter on Changchang, simply because she wasn't looking forward to the fight that would bring. Just a rope and that damn twine bridle was all Changchang seemed to be able to handle.

Jian Zhang caught her at the door, his pipe empty. He looked…rough, somehow. Like someone had tried to attack him, and he'd fought them off. Or like he hadn't slept again. She frowned.

"Are you all right?"

"'m fine." He waved that away. "I had a thought, though, for the mare, that I think'll be helpful."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "She…was better, today. At least a little. Playful."

He smiled, ever so slightly. It was more of a deepening of the lines around his mouth than anything, but it felt like a smile. "That's good. She's not fighting us as hard as we anticipated if she's playing."

"She also stepped on my foot, bit me twice, and threw me three times."

"It's a matter of perspective." He pressed a small book into her hands, handwritten and handbound, and Lan Fan cocked her head at him in a question. "Read that before you come out to work with her again. Especially the piece on Columbine. It might be of some use."

There was a title inscribed in blue ink on the first page.  _Notes on Horse Training_. Someone had dogeared a page on training. Jian Zhang closed the book, and closed her fingers over it, flesh and metal alike.

"Read it," he said, gruffly, and then he turned and walked away from her without another word.

She stared after him for a moment. Then Lan Fan tucked the book into her sash and set off at a modest trot for the Bamboo Gardens.

The room seemed emptier without Peizhi in the bed. It wasn't that he'd stayed for very long, only a week or so, but at the same time it had been one more person in a set of rooms that could be holding twelve, and it had helped the suite seem less empty. Niu Lu was out somewhere, and there was a note from Suyin Yao on the table.  _Dinner in the Commander's rooms at seven. Don't be late._  Lan Fan crumpled the note in one fist, and tossed it into the garbage can before she stripped her shirt off over her head, tossing it to the floor.

Her back was all bruises, above and below her chest bindings. She'd been feeling them throb since the first throw of the day, but it was one thing to feel it and another thing to see the patches of yellow, green, blue, and purple flesh, from her shoulderblades to her hips. She wouldn't have  _any_ bruises if she'd been able to drop and roll like she normally would have, maybe one or two sore spots, but the point of being Feiyan Ma was that even if she was a good rider and even if she was a steppes warrior, she wasn't the same sort of caliber of fighter as, say, the Emperor's Shadow. So now, instead of landing on her feet every time Changchang decided to be an idiot and toss her off, she had to hit the ground hard, but not in any way that might actually injure her. That meant bruises on her ass and on her shoulders and having to sleep on her stomach every night until the mare decided to stop chucking her around like some kind of toy. Getting crushed against a stall wall hadn't helped either.

Her foot was fine. Thankfully, Changchang hadn't kept her weight long enough to break any toes. She still limped a little as she kicked off her loose pants, wrapped a thin robe around herself, and tied the knot loosely around her waist. She needed to go to the baths, to clean up, to get ready. Instead she just took a breath and sank down onto the end of her bed, undoing her braid and running her fingers through her hair. There was still grass in it; she rolled a strand between her fingers.

Maybe this time. Maybe this time she would get enough time to herself to explore. Maybe this time she would find something worth her while. Maybe this time. Her fingers caught in an impressive little mat at the back of her skull, and Lan Fan started peeling it apart, frowning at herself. She was almost positive that there was nothing of real value in the Feng mansion; at least, nothing that they would be willing to leave around with a stranger wandering the halls. There was always a chance that they had slipped up, though.

She seized a comb off the bedside table, and began hacking away at her hair again. Since it was one of the alkahestrical combs, it just turned her hair red, rather than actually doing much to the knot. Lan Fan swore, and tore into the drawers. The Gathering was in two days, and she still had nothing more than a surface understanding of how the Fengs functioned, and even what their intentions were. The triplets were always extraordinarily careful to not discuss family business while she was in the room, and while that was typical for most of the Fifty Families, it was scraping at her like a burr in her sock.

She felt a prick of danger on the back of her neck before she heard the door open, and Lan Fan went icy still. Someone was in her rooms. It had been the back door, the one into the garden, and she supposed she was just lucky that they had decided to come in through the main room rather than the side-door into the Bamboo Gardens from her bedchamber. She slid her hand under her mattress, to the  _kunai_  she kept there, and drew it slowly. She was still wearing her knife sheaths, but having one more blade in her hand made her feel safer, somehow.

She was home early, she realized. Usually she stayed out with Changchang until at least ten o'clock. It was only nine-ish, but her back had been too sore for her to keep riding, and her meeting with the Emperor and the arrival of the Fengs had ruined her schedule.

 _Spy._  Her heart kickstarted. Lan Fan twirled the knife in her fingers, and rolled up to her feet. Her bathrobe would do, for fighting in. It was loose enough for her to be able to move. For once, her automail was at full capacity, even without a tune-up. She had just sharpened the extendable elbow-blade last night. She flipped the catch on her automail, and padded to the main door. She'd left it open, just a crack, and through it she could see movement. There was a crack, and a rustling sound. Someone was bending over her desk.

Black clothes. A hood and scarf. She drew a breath in through her nose. There was a faint trace of sage on the air, of sage and iron. Had they not sensed her? It didn't seem like they had. She masked her  _qi_ , sure, but not enough to erase her presence entirely. If they had any sort of ability to  _qi-_ sense, they would have realized she was here by now.

They'd come in through the garden-side doors, and the desk was on the exact opposite side, near the front door. The bedroom door was to the left of the spy, then. He would be able to tell if she opened it, and then he would run. She would probably be able to catch him, especially now that she could pick out his  _qi_ —burnished bronze and struck matches resting heavy in the back of her throat—but she'd rather not have to run through the palace after him.

There was a click, and the man in black made a soft triumphant noise, rocking back on his heels. He'd undone the lock on one of her drawers. She kept everything important under the loose floorboard beneath her bed, but still.  _Feng?_ She thought.  _Someone else?_ If they were Feng, it might be better for her to leave the man to his own devices and discover that Feiyan Ma had nothing to hide, but if it was someone else…she rolled the idea around in her head. Out in the main room, the man had already gone through a handful of the fake papers she'd been supplied with. Most of them were in Xingese, but a few were in transliterated Saatii (a gift from Suyin) and he wouldn't be able to read them. She heard a hiss, and then he'd set all the papers back into the drawer before closing and locking it again. He stood, and then she saw the half-mask.

Lan Fan slammed the bedroom door open, and let the kunai fly. The spy swore, and went to move, but her first blade had pinned his pant-leg to the floor; as he tried to wrench it free, she threw a second knife, a third, a fourth, and then all four of his limbs were pinned to the wall, and Lan Fan had unsheathed her automail elbow-blade. She set it to his throat. "Hello," she said. "Find something interesting?"

He was wearing a mask. She could smell the sweat on him, hear his heart beating. She wrenched off his half-mask. It wasn't the man she'd fought at the Chang party. He wasn't Xingese, either, or Qarashi. Maybe another one of the desert tribes, though why one of them would be wearing a Firebrand medallion, she had no idea. She closed one fist around the medallion and wrenched it off his neck, ignoring the way he winced when the chain broke. This one had a catch, like Xiaoqing's. Without taking her eyes off his face, she thumbed it open, and dropped the pendant to the floor, holding the little scrap of paper inscribed with his name up by his cheek.

"Sakari Kazuki," she said. "You're Nohin?"

He smiled at her, baring all his teeth. He was missing two right in the front. "What do you know of the Nohin?" He slipped into Nohinra, and her ears stung, because it had been  _so_ long since she'd heard it. It echoed, like words out of a dream. " _Omae wa saa, nanimonoda? Fen no inu ka?_ "*

She pressed her automail blade close against his throat, but he didn't shut up. " _Sore to, maou no bicchi ka?_ "

She punched him in the gut. The Nohin man grunted, and when she pulled away, he hung from her knives like a sacrifice on a cross, spitting and gasping. Nohin. Saatii. The Firebrands. She kicked Sakari's pendant under the desk. "Tell me what you want with my things," she said, and when he swore at her under his breath, she hit him again, this time in the face. She felt his cheekbone give under her fist. "What do the Firebrands want with me? On whose orders did you come here?"

He laughed, and she hit him again. Blood ran down his lips and chin. She'd broken his nose. When he spat at her, blood streaked down her jaw. " _Yappari,_ " he said, " _omae no you na onna wa saite da._ "

She seized him by the hair, and then drove her metal fist into his gut. He let out a pained noise, like he'd been stepped on by an elephant. Lan Fan wiped the blood off her cheek. She had fancied that when she finally managed to get a lead, her blood would be boiling, but all she felt now was cold. Chilled, like she'd been left in the icebox too long. She scowled at him.

"I won't ask again," she said. "And if you make me, I'll start taking off your fingers"

Sakari stared. Then he smiled again. There was blood on his lips. "Huli was right about you," he said. "You're a hellcat, horse-wife. No wonder they keep you around."

It felt as though someone had just drawn a finger up her spine. Lan Fan seized him by the wrist, slammed his hand palm-down against the wall, and set her last kunai to his thumb. "Last chance," she said, and dug the tip into the flesh. "Who is Huli?"

The blood was still pouring out of his broken nose. Sakari spat again, this time onto the floor. She heard one of his ribs creak, and realized she must have cracked a few with her last blow. "Five seconds," she said, and slit a line down his thumb with the blade. He let out a hissing breath.

"A hellcat," he said again. "He wanted me to tell you something."

She pricked the flesh under his nail with her knife. "Tell me what?"

He leaned forward as far as he could. She could see the muscles in his neck twitching, like something had possessed them; she wondered if something was wrong with him. Then she felt his breath against her face. "Huli says hello," Sakari whispered, and there was a crunch from inside his mouth. The scent of cyanide stung at her nose. Lan Fan swore, and lunged for his throat, but it was too late; she saw his esophagus work, saw the pill go down. Sakari smiled.

"Son of a  _bitch_ ," she snarled at him, and punched him in the stomach. Once. Twice. He heaved. When she drove her knee into his gut, he puked. She could still see the shell of the cyanide pill lying amidst the vomit, bright blue and tiny as a bead. Lan Fan closed her eyes and sighed. There was no telling if he'd actually managed to ingest more than a miniscule amount, and there was no way to tell if he'd survive now, but she had a better chance of learning more about the Firebrands if Sakari, at least, stayed living.

For the first time, Sakari looked frightened. Lan Fan twisted her automail arm, and the elbow-blade sheathed itself, smooth as silk.

"I'll speak to you soon, Nohin- _jin,_ " she said, and then she drove her fist into the side of his head, and went to change her clothes. She couldn't go to the Feng manorhouse stinking of blood and vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Translation from Nohinra/Japanese:
> 
> Omae wa saa, nanimonoda? Fen no inu ka? Sore to, maou no bicchi ka? /Who the hell are you, anyway? Are you a Feng dog? Or are you the devil's bitch?
> 
> Yappari, omae no you na onna wa saite da. /Women like you are the worst, after all.
> 
> So you guys know when Lan Fan says "you wouldn't ask me to do anything improper" that Ling gets all these naughty images in his head, right? Because he's Ling. Oh, Lan Fan.
> 
> Speaking of Ling, I'm glad you guys like him in SotB; he's incredibly difficult to write, and I was going back and forth on this chapter SO MUCH because of it. He's my baby but I want to punch him in the face sometimes.
> 
> A few notes from last chapter: The title of Ed's book (Alchemy and Rasayana: A Comparative Study) was suppsed to be written by Edward Elric, St A, or Edward Elric, State Alchemist, but because there was a bunch of periods in there, FFnet deleted it. Silly FFnet.
> 
> Another thing: Lan Fan can sense qi signatures for a mile around her if she is not connected to the Dragon's Pulse. If she is, she can go a great deal further than that. I'm debating about going back and editing some things, so if I do, I will let you know.
> 
> As a note: I am REALLY BAD at responding to messages, because I am actually a horrible person. So I'm sorry if you've sent me a note and haven't responded to you yet. It's not that I hate you. It's that I suck.
> 
> Also someone asked a couple of chapters ago but I am a senior in university and that is why I have no life.


	12. Kusarigama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "The Menjiang Girl," from Lei Qiang's _Chinese Traditional Erhu Music 2_.  
>  "In the Chess Court," from the _Hero_ soundtrack.  
>  "Spirit Fight," from the _Hero_ soundtrack.  
>  "Exorcising Evil," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.
> 
> Part of what I love about this project is that I get a chance to watch all of these Chinese wuxia movies all over again. Y'all are feeding my martial arts movie nerd.

**Eleven: Kusarigama**

Alphonse laid his head on the desk, and groaned. They'd been talking this in circles for hours, in preparation for the Gathering (and because Mei was more a torturer than a tutor), and it felt exactly like that moment when she'd first tried to explain the Dragon's Pulse to him in Amestris. She'd say something, he wouldn't get it, and she would just repeat it, louder and slower, as if that was going to help him. He peeked up at her through his bangs. "Again?'

"Honestly." She sniffed, and dropped down into the chair next to him, fluffing her hair. She'd undone her braids, for once—he knew that they were an alkahestry mastery thing, and that the more braids someone had, the higher they were in their mastery—but he liked it when Mei did leave her hair down. It frizzed around her face from being braided all the time, and it hung down past her hips. "It's not that difficult. Amestris has different peoples in it, doesn't it?"

"Mm." He ticked them off on his fingers. "There are the majority groups, which are the Strya people—they settled Amestris in the first place. The Ishvalans. The Nongena, too. There are the Xingese immigrants, the Cretans and Aerugans. The  _helfte_."

Mei's nose wrinkled. " _Helfte_?"

"I…guess they're people of mixed heritage? That's the closest approximation. It's a word from Old Amestrian."

"It sounds like  _half_."

"Well…" Al shifted. "Yes, that's what it means."

Mei scowled at him. "That's rude."

"I didn't say I liked the word, I'm just saying that's what they're called."

She hummed, and then yanked the map of Xing closer to both of them. It was split into fifty-one pieces, some of them huge, some of them miniscule, all but one marked with a family name. (The fifty-first was the capitol city.) The Changs were in a smallish territory at the foot of the Yingxiong Mountains, hundreds of miles north of Xinjing. "Thirty-four of the Fifty Families are Chun. It was a member of the Chun people that originally founded Xing—that was the God-Emperor." She leaned forward, and traced a path from a country to the northeast to Xing. "We think that the Chun came from roughly  _here—_ " she jabbed a finger at a patch of empty mountain territory—"but we haven't found much evidence either way. Xing was already well-founded when the kingdom of Xerxes…disappeared, and that was over a thousand years ago."

Al nodded. This was all stuff he knew, but if he was being perfectly honest, he did like having Mei explain it. There was something lyrical about the way she spoke that made him want to smile. Mei pointed at another country, the Ma, and then traced her finger down the seam between Xing and desert. "The other sixteen families, though, come from different ethnic roots, and there are dozens of smaller tribes or peoples who have simply been sworn to one of the Grand Families rather than claiming a title of their own. Some—" She ran her finger from the desert to different countries along the edge, and even further in: Wang, He, Zheng, Qiao. "—came in from the desert and settled, taking a family name and living under the dominion of Xing until they became part of the fabric of the nation. Others were conquered and assimilated. But they brought different traditions with them, different heritages and different rules. There have been even more families that have died out, some recently, some not."

Al frowned. Then he pointed at another name, a shaded blue-and-white patch of land further east than Ma territory, but still a part of the northwestern steppes. It was part of Songland, he thought, but he wasn't certain; he didn't recognize the character printed within the province borders. "What about this one?"

Mei's lips pressed tight together. "That's Nohin territory. The Nohin…I suppose you could compare them to the Ishvalans in some ways. They were a leashed kingdom that was put under the dominion of Xing hundreds of years ago, but they've always been very proud; there were any number of rebellions against the Emperor, but somehow they always failed. Only half of them wound up civilized, and those that founded cities and towns called themselves the People of the Setting Sun. The rest of them were nomadic, like the Ma and their sister tribe, the Saatii." She bit her thumbnail. "About thirteen years ago, there was a civil war in Nohin territory. The settled peoples, backed by the Tea Leaf Emperor, led a series of extermination raids against the tribes. Those who weren't killed outright were indentured or executed later." She looked at him with wide, liquid eyes. "It was…very bloody. Not many escaped, and those that did…they don't call themselves Nohin anymore. After that the territory was given to the Song family. Their land grant was much smaller before the Nohin War."

Al felt sick. He sat back, and closed his eyes for a moment. Something, some wound that had opened when Amestris had sacked Ishval, a wound that had festered when Hohenheim had told him about Xerxes, throbbed. Life was sacred. Why were so many people so willing to destroy it?

"Alphonse-sama?" Mei asked worriedly, and he couldn't help it. He opened his eyes, and stood, touching the top of her head lightly with his fingers.

"I've told you a thousand times not to call me that anymore."

Mei blinked at him. Al smiled. Then he reached forward, and tapped the northernmost province of Xing, Bei-guo. "Tell me about them."

* * *

Lan Fan knew she was dreaming because she was staring at the body of Fuhrer King Bradley. Her stump of an arm, fresh, raw, throbbed like a heartbeat under the metal. She watched him, tasting the blood and death on the air, and realized that she was alone in the cavern with the Fuhrer's dead body. Scar was gone, and there was no hole in the ceiling like there should be.

One of the Fuhrer's swords—she knew instinctively it was the one that had torn her arm to shreds—was sticking up out of a crack in the stone, broken in two, blood streaking down the blade. The prince's blood. She could smell him in it, him and the homunculus, and her heart clenched, skipping into double-time.

She couldn't feel anyone. The Dragon's Pulse rippled under her feet, squirming, crying. She couldn't bear to be so close to it, but she had nowhere else to go. She put her hand to her aching stump, and turned away from Fuhrer King Bradley and his sword, reaching out blindly. She couldn't feel her grandfather.  _Because he's dead all over again,_  something hissed inside her, and the scar in her heart tore open again. She blinked furiously. She could feel the prince, but his  _qi_ -sense was curious, muffled; like it was buried under a hundred others.

Lan Fan was swept away in the sudden torrent of souls before she realized that there was another person in the room. Thousands of them, more, their agony torquing and twisting the Dragon's Pulse, corrupting it, staining it. She nearly clapped her hands over her ears. All her instincts screamed at her to run.  _Homunculus._ When she looked down at the Fuhrer, though, he was still dead, bloody tears leaking out of his ouroborus eye, wrinkled, armless, damnably peaceful.

There was a rush of motion from behind her. Lan Fan seized the Fuhrer's sword from the stone and rolled. When she came to her feet again, she thrust the jagged blade forward, and she felt the give of flesh beneath the blade in the instant before the sword shattered with a  _clang_ that set her teeth to trembling. Red eyes opened, and swallowed her whole. Her heart burst.

 _Master Ling_. But it wasn't Master Ling. She could feel him, and yet not, buried amidst all those other souls, the only peaceful spot in this mass of horror that was smearing his body. Inside the deepest part of herself, Lan Fan  _screamed_. "No," she said. "No, you left."

Greed didn't say anything. He just grinned at her, using her master's mouth and her master's teeth and her master's body, and it wasn't the smile she knew so well. It wasn't  _any_ of his smiles. She knew all of them, and this wasn't any of them. This was wide and insufferable and  _wrong_ , and she wanted to punch it off his face if it wouldn't have broken Ling's. She swallowed hard.

"You  _left,_ " she said again. "You sacrificed yourself for us. You died. You're  _dead!_ "

Greed offered his hand to her, the grapheme sliding forward over his forearm, wrist, fingers, until his hand was clawed like an animal's. He reached forward with his other hand, Master Ling's hand, and set his fingers against the pulse in her throat, sliding his hand up into her hair, cupping the back of her head. Lan Fan wanted to jerk away, but she couldn't move. The dream had frozen her in place.

"Well," he said, "that's just stupid."

His thumb brushed against her trachea, and pushed. Lan Fan choked.  _I hate_ him, she thought,  _I_ hate  _him,_ and she seized his wrist with both hands. But it was Master Ling's wrist, and she couldn't defend herself against Master Ling.

This was wrong. Greed had never attacked her. He'd always made a point of it.  _I don't fight with women,_ he'd said, and she'd never known if it was because he didn't think women were powerful enough to face him or because the women he met were too important to him to fight with, but either way, he had never laid a hand on her. She choked, and spots flared in front of her eyes. Greed lifted her off her feet, holding her with one hand. He looked  _bored._

"By the way," he said. "Huli says hello."

Then, with his free hand, he slit her open nose to navel. Lan Fan opened her mouth in a silent scream.

_Traitor._

"Swallow-girl? You're twitching."

Lan Fan jerked, and woke up panting. Across from her, Lien Hua—who was twirling in front of the mirror again, studying her reflection—glanced over her shoulder.

"Are you all right? You look like someone just stabbed you in the gut."

Lan Fan licked her lips. Her arm ached. "It's—nothing." She rubbed the stump through her clothes. "Just…I was dreaming about when I lost my arm."

Half a lie. It still shut Lien Hua up. She made a face that might have been disgust or pity or both, and turned back to her reflection, spinning one last time. "Are you sure this one's all right?" she asked, and picked at the Feng green  _ruqun_ that she'd had commissioned. The seamstress must have had a hundred apprentices and a great many more hours in a day than Lan Fan did in order to get Lien Hua's gown  _and_ Lan Fan's done in time for the Opening of the Gathering, but the fact remained that she'd done it. Maybe alkahestry had been involved. Actually, now Lan Fan thought about it, alkahestry had  _definitely_ been involved. There was no way the embroidered pheasants on Lien Hua's skirts would look like they were moving otherwise. "I still think the green's not quite right."

"It's fine." Lan Fan smoothed a wrinkle out of her own  _ruqun_. A ruby-red skirt with a black waist-skirt, her cuffs and seams all embroidered with silver horses. A piece of jade carved with her borrowed family name hung from beneath the waistskirt. The  _zhaoshan_  that went with it was still draped on Lien Hua's bed. All of it was made of more expensive material than she had ever worn in her life, but because she was the "cousin" of the Commander of the Imperial Guard, no expense had been spared. Niu Lu had pulled out more  _lidschatten_  from her box of makeup, and dabbed deep red paint onto Lan Fan's lips. Her hair was loose and streaked with red and all it was doing was getting in her way. She brushed it impatiently out of her face. "It's Feng green, isn't it?"

"Not the Feng bit, the underrobe." Lien Hua picked at it, frowning. "It's just a shade too pale."

Lan Fan shrugged. "It's a robe."

"It's a robe for the  _Gathering_ and she managed to get it  _wrong_ ," Lien Hua said; somehow she had managed to sound like a put-out queen and a spoiled child simultaneously. "I'll have her hide for this.  _Ning_!"

The alkahestrist-servant poked her head into Lien Hua's room, and Lan Fan seized her zhaoshan and scuttled out of the room before she was dragged into another color-changing experiment. Lien Hua had had Ning try to adjust the color of her long skirt three times in the past hour, and each time she just grew more dissatisfied with it. Honestly, Lan Fan thought it was an extraordinarily shallow use of alkahestry, but she wasn't about to say that. Lien Hua might actually throw her out of the Feng rooms, and that would serve no purpose at all.

Lan Fan cracked the knuckles of her flesh hand, and dropped her shoes by the front door before dropping down onto the bamboo matting in front of the snuff table. Xinzhe and Dong Mao were still in their respective rooms—she wasn't sure if they were changing or just hiding from Lien Hua's tantrum—and Wen, the second maid with the knives, was standing in the corner of the room, keeping her eyes on the floor, waiting for instructions. Lan Fan shifted, so her back wasn't to the woman holding a bunch of knives, and then propped her chin in one hand.

There were six points of entry to the Feng rooms. If Dong Mao and Xinzhe's bedrooms were anything like Lien Hua's, anyway. Three windows, one front door, one back door, and the servant's entrance she had caught Ning using last week. The Opening of the Gathering will last at least six hours, and there will be more people there than there were at the Sevens Race. If she timed it right, she'd be able to get sneaky.

Her heart should be pounding, she thought. Instead, it almost seemed to be beating too slowly. No adrenaline, no fear. Just…relief, in so many ways. She'd been talking herself in circles for weeks and now she finally could _do_ something. She had a prisoner locked up in the guardhouse and within three hours she'd have a set of empty rooms for her perusal. She refused to think about the fact that as of yesterday, she had officially lasted longer than any other spy they had sent against the Fengs so far. It had been a sick sort of anniversary. She'd gone to the tiny shrine at the end of the corridor near her apartments and lit a stick of incense for them.

She wanted to talk to the Nohin prisoner again. Sakari was locked up in one of the side rooms of the Imperial Guardsmens' wing; a benefit to having the Commander of the Imperial Guard as your supposed cousin-in-law. They'd had to call in a healer, she knew that much, but the Commander had been careful to organize her life so she hadn't had time to go see Sakari in the forty-eight hours that had passed since she'd caught him. Her eyes burned with the frustration of it. She finally had had something to break the endless monotony of her mental circling, and she wasn't allowed to go near him. It wasn't even as though he was a part of the Feng network—at least, she didn't think he was, considering the Firebrands had tried to kill the triplets only a few weeks ago—but the Commander had ruled it too dangerous for her to interrogate him, and so she'd obeyed. Grudgingly. But she'd obeyed.

Lan Fan splayed her metal fingers on the Fengs' coffee table, and let out a breath. Tonight. Tonight, when Wen and Ning were following the Fengs in their little servant entourage, like all the other personal servants did at the Gathering; tonight, when the Fengs were plying their trade; tonight, she would  _finally_ have some sort of clue. And she could clamber out of this traffic jam she'd lodged herself in.  _Finally._

She felt the prickle of apprehension on the back of her neck the instant before she sensed Xinzhe and Dong Mao behind her. Lan Fan whipped around just in time to catch the bean bag that Xinzhe had just tossed at her head. Xinzhe swore. Dong Mao looked pleased with himself—she had to blink a few times when she realized it was the first time she'd seen his face twist into anything other than a scowl—and held out his hand to his brother.

"Five  _ling_ ," he said. "Pay up."

"Hardnose," said Xinzhe, but he disappeared back into his room to get the money anyway. Lan Fan threw the bean bag back at Dong Mao, who caught it easily in his left hand. When she lifted her eyebrows in a question, he ignored her. Lan Fan snorted, and pulled the copy of  _Tomiko's Letters_ that Mingli Chen had loaned her (as part of his attempt to educate her in "court things," just like Suyin had requested) closer. She'd read most of the books he'd given her before, but  _Tomiko's Letters_ was new and fascinating and  _different_. A Nohin woman who was proud to call herself Nohin, a woman who was proud of being female, a demand for equal rights and equal pay. In many ways, Xing was better than countries like Drachma or Aerugo, who didn't allow women into their governments or their military, but at the same time the Tracts of Wu Xia had still made their mark. The courts in particular were creaking under the weight of the traditions that Master Ling had dedicated his life to unraveling. The thing was, when a tradition was embraced as much as Wu Xia and the Fifty Families, it was damn hard to unravel in only a few years of work.

Lan Fan kept her senses open, thumbing through the book to find her place again. Lien Hua had had a fit—one of her good fits, not one of her flee-the-room fits—when she'd realized Lan Fan was reading  _Tomiko's Letters_ , and had immediately gone to her bookshelf and wrenched out four more books (a transcription of Tomiko's speeches in Feng-guo, Chen-guo, Jiang-guo, and Pan-guo; a book of feminist philosophy;  _The House of the Earth_ , a philosophical fiction book that made her head hurt just to look at it; and a book on architecture from the time of the Lightning Strike Emperor, which Lan Fan thought had been an accident) and pushed them into her hands. Considering Lan Fan had had little time to do actual spy-things (her belly still rolled at that idea) she'd been making her way through all of them, alternating one chapter at a time. The combination was…interesting, to say the least. She still had to say she liked  _Tomiko's Letters_ best, simply because unlike  _The House of the Earth_ , Tomiko Fukuda said exactly what she thought, in letters or in speechmaking. It was easier, she thought, than teasing out all the different meanings of every word in  _The House of the Earth_.

She'd found her place again. She could sense, hear, and see Xinzhe knocking on his brother's door again, offering the five  _ling_ he'd lost for not being able to hit her.  _In ancient times there were various evil teachings and customs in our country, things that would make the people of any free, civilized nation terribly ashamed._ Lien Hua was chirping, her words incomprehensible, from her bedroom. Ning was still inside.  _Of these, the most reprehensible was the practice of "respecting men and despising women."_ She turned the page.  _That_   _is why I speak of equality and equal rights. Yet in our country, our Xing, just as in the past, men continue to be respected as masters, husbands, and intellectuals, and women are held in contempt as maids or serving women._ When she shifted, pulling her ankles out from under her, sitting sideways, she heard a creak of floorboards, and paused.  _There can be no equality in a society which perseveres in this mistaken ideal._

Lan Fan glanced to Dong Mao's open door, and then at Wen, who was staring blankly out of the partly open door into the Sprout Gardens. She let her hand slip to the floor, and when there was a particularly loud chirp of joy from Lien Hua, she rapped the floor, keeping her eyes on  _Tomiko's Letters._ She thought that this was the place where Dong Mao had always sat, whenever she'd been to these rooms before. She'd never stepped here. She woud have heard the creak before now if she had.

There was a thrum of hollow wood when she rapped it with her metal knuckles, and Lan Fan hid a secret smile behind the pages of her book. At least when she broke in later, she had someplace to start looking.

Ah. There it was. The thrum of excitement. Long overdue. Her body was burning with energy. She was  _ready_ , damn it, after so long, because here at last there was something she could  _do_ other than sitting around and pretending she had a clue what she was doing.

The notebook and pencil she'd shoved into her sash earlier sizzled against her belly. She wanted to juggle one of her knives. Lan Fan stowed her metal hand in her lap again, and turned the page in  _Tomiko's Letters._

An hour. And then she'd finally have something to show for all of this waiting.

* * *

The Gathering happened once every two years. Ling wondered why they couldn't have it even  _less_ often, considering the amount of primping and fawning that went on in the weeks before. (The sheer volume of dirty looks people gave him when they thought he wasn't looking  _after_ the Gathering, though—those were too satisfying to pass up.) Every night was an exercise in extravagance, and every  _day_ was a stretch of his dwindling reserves of patience.

Mei Chang's modern party had gone well. There had been four more mimicking her in the past four weeks. None of them, of course, thrown by people that the Fengs would care about, so he didn't think Lan Fan knew she'd been at the first party in a stream of the same, but at the same time she'd been at the center of an explosion of a new fad.  _Modernity._ He let a satisfied smile creep onto his lips as he fixed the crooked bangles on his headdress and let one of the servants—he thought it was one of the multitudes of Liu boys that were crawling around his rooms lately—drape the Yao sash over his shoulder, olive-green and embroidered with oak leaves. It was shaping up to be an explosion of foreign and Xingese ideas: politics and fashion and literature, art and philosophy and music, and it was starting right under the noses of the people who would most like to see it fail. That out of everything might have been what he enjoyed most about plans like this: that because it was the youth initiating it, the younger sons and daughters of the people who had been settled in The Way of Things for decades, nobody noticed.

He raised his arms, and let the attendants buckle on the ceremonial sword. As soon as they left the room, he would replace this one with one had been worked to look exactly like it: one that had an edge, and wouldn't shatter like glass at the first real blow. He glanced at Peng, the fake Shadow, and decided to slide a dagger up his sleeve as well.

What happened in the Imperial City would leak down to the populus eventually. It might take a while, but he had settled in for the long game, and if he had to wait years for it, he would. There wasn't any way he could really speed up the process without drawing attention to his own role in Mei Chang's decision to throw a party laced with "modern" sensibilities. Eventually, through letters and cultural osmosis, it would spread through the capitol city, and then to the outlying countries. People would write back to their provinces, and it would catch on, and then he could finally start implementing some of these changes he'd been scripting for over two years now.

The attendants left. Ling switched out the swords, shoving the ornamental one under his bed (no one would find it for a while—probably) and then tucked his hands up into his sleeves, pasting on a court smile. He'd been very careful to make sure that there was the slightest hint of modernity, of progress, in the robes that had been made for the Opening Ceremonies. There was a hint of Drachma in the cut and color of the overrobes, Aerugan embroidery styles in the sash. Thamasq was hiding in the collar, too. In fact, the only country he hadn't tried to reference yet was Amestris, and that was because people were already worried enough that he was too loyal to certain bodies of government in Amestris to be a worthy emperor for Xing. Which was patently ridiculous, but it was a good weapon for the opposition, and one that he would not place into their hands.

There was a knock. Then Gen Chang slipped into the room and into a deep bow, mumbling something under his breath. He would have plastered himself to the floor had Ling not banned that behavior in his private rooms ages ago. (He would have placed a general ban throughout the whole palace, but Shen Liu had turned an impressive shade of purple that had made him concerned for the man's health.) "What is it, Guardsman?"

"Imperial Highness." Gen Chang kept his eyes on the floor. "The esteemed Empress Dowager is requests the honor of entering your presence."

Ling swore very loudly and very graphically in Amestrian, and Gen Chang choked. Had Lan Fan been teaching him Amestrian? Ling couldn't remember. He went to school himself into a smile again, and then realized his court face had never actually fallen away. No wonder Gen Chang was still sputtering. "Do I have to let her in?"

Gen Chang choked again, and Ling wondered if he'd ever been so open with this particular guardsman. This one had been the man Lan Fan left in front of his doors when she went off to sleep or tend to her own needs, he remembered. Mei Chang's fourth cousin twice removed went up a notch in his estimation. "Forgive this one for his crass and unworthy observations, eminence, but the Empress Dowager, may she live long, seems to have already—and accidentally—broken a vase on her way into the imperial apartments."

She was in a mood, then. Ling bit back a sigh. "Which vase?"

"This one believes that it was the double-handled monkey vase in the hall outside, eminence."

"I  _liked_ that vase."

"This one's deepest apologies for not preventing the accident, eminence."

"It's not your fault." Ling rubbed the bridge of his nose rather fiercely. When he glanced back at the mirror, it had turned pink. "Bring her in, then, Chang. And make sure that once she's out of the way that all the vases in the hallway are removed, so she can't  _accidentally_ break any more of them on her way out."

Gen Chang bowed, lips twitching, and then backed out of the room without looking up once. Ling had just enough time to regret his decision before the Empress Dowager, Huian Yao, the lotus blossom of the Zhao family, the seventh wife of the Retired Emperor, and his highly estimable and completely untrustworthy mother swept into the room.

Huian Zhao had been adopted into the Yao family as a political prisoner at the age of three. If she hadn't caught the Retired Emperor's eye at the age of sixteen, she probably would have married the younger son of the old Yao patriarch, and lived out her days in the relative obscurity of petty familial politics. Through accident or design (Ling was fairly sure it was the latter) she had wandered into the Emperor's heart and never quite left it again. She had, by all accounts, been one of his favorites until she'd had Ling, and then the Emperor had lost interest in her entirely in favor of a Huang girl less than half his age.

He remembered very little of his mother until he'd turned about twelve. He'd been brought into her presence every Saturday (or so they told him), where his tutors had reported his progress and accomplishments, or the lack of them, depending on whether or not he'd been obedient that week. (The older he'd grown, the less obedient he'd become.) Fuu had been Huian Yao's primary bodyguard for years, until it became clear that people were more interested in killing Huian's son than Huian herself. After all, by the time he was eight, she had fallen both out of favor and out of sight as the Emperor had flitted from woman to woman, and then from illness to illness, until the final long slow crawl to death that he'd embarked on while Ling had gone to Amestris.

He could remember only one image of her from those days. She would look at him from over her fan, her dark eyes searching him from top to toe, and then her eyebrows creasing slightly, as though she'd found something wanting. She had never had time for a child, and she'd made sure he'd known it, even when he'd been traipsing around after her during court events for the last two years before he'd left for Amestris. It had only been when he'd returned from what people had called a suicide mission with a philosopher's stone around his neck, a dead Huo, and a Chang girl under his arm (and Lan Fan, but then again, Lan Fan had never really been visible to his mother) that Huian had decided that her son was finally worth all of her time.

Huian wasn't more than thirty-six now (she'd only been eighteen or so when Ling had been born) and she barely looked her age; whatever wears and cares time had given her had been carefully smoothed away. She dropped down to the floor in an exquisite toppling motion, meant to show off her white neck, her gorgeous silks. She was in Yao green with a touch of Qiao black, in reverence of the Retired Emperor, spirits bless and keep him. Her eyes had been layered with charcoal. Ling folded his arms carefully across his chest.

"Hello, mother," he said.

"Health, strength, and reverence to you, my son," she said. Her voice was lovely and lyrical. When she looked up at him, he could see his nose, his eyebrows reflected in her face. He wondered what parts of herself she saw in him. She lowered her gaze again. "I offer my congratulations on the opening of the Gathering. The people seem pleased with the arrangements so far."

"Really? They weren't supposed to be." He kept the smile stuck to his face like plaster, wondering when she would start to twitch. "What brings you here this evening, mother? I heard something break outside."

"One of the servants bumped into a vase." She smiled, but her eyes were glittering. She had already had one disappointment today, he wagered; if he denied her whatever she wanted, she would exact her revenge in careful, painful ways. "It was unfortunate."

"Ah." He tapped his thumb against the inside of his opposite wrist, careful to keep his fingers hidden. Huian didn't know him as well as Lan Fan did, and so she couldn't read his hands, but at the same time, Huian Yao had been brought up at court; if she ever caught a tell like that one, she would ply it to her advantage. "Did you only come to offer your congratulations?"

"For what other reason would I come, my son?" Huian Yao said, and rocked back onto her feet. She was only a few inches shorter than he was, but something about her made her seem taller. "I wanted to wish you luck; the Gathering promises to be an excellent one."

"Everyone is accounted for, then?"

"Even the Ma," she said, and her nose wrinkled, ever so slightly. She glanced at Peng, and then lowered her voice. "Do you know, it's the first time in decades that one of the Ma has come to the Gathering? I had heard that there was a pair of nomad women on the imperial grounds, but I had thought it was a joke until the Commander informed me otherwise. I had no idea that he had married so far below him."

"Lady Suyin is an admirable examble of her people and an excellent wife for Shan."

"He would have been better suited to one of the Sheng girls," Huian corrected him gently. "There was talk of a betrothal between them for many years, you know."

Ling smiled widely, and offered his arm to his mother. "Which one was he going to marry? The elder bitch or the younger addict?"

"So crass," she sniffed, and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I don't understand your determination to keep that man on your payroll, even if he is an excellent guardsman."

"Why? Because he's only half-Yao?"

"Because he regularly insults and disobeys you, imperial eminence, of course." She smiled. "For what other reason would I push for his resignation? I only feel that he is not properly loyal to you; he will endanger you eventually. What else can a mother do but protect her son?"

"What else indeed," said Ling. They left the main suite just as one final servant vanished through a secret door with the mate to the monkey vase. "Shan is happy with his wife, mother. Don't be a bully."

She laughed. "What an awful thing to say. You shouldn't tease people so, Ling. It makes them think you don't like them."

"If I don't like someone, they would be the last to know," he replied, and offered her a little bow of the head, a flourish of the wrist. He slid his hand back up into his sleeve. They slid into the hallway, and Gen Chang fell seamlessly into step with them. Peng followed them two steps behind Gen Chang, and the sight of Lan Fan's mask on another person's face twisted away at him like it always did.

"The steppes woman is pregnant, I hear?" said Huian delicately, and Ling inclined his head.

"She requested one of her cousins be brought to court in order to accompany her through her first birth. The girl has been staying in the palace."

"In the Bamboo Gardens," said Huian, and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Ling kept his face blank.

"Was she? I didn't know that."

"I didn't think you did." Huian sniffed. "I may move her, if you don't mind. Bolin Qiao has been asking for a different room, quite reasonably—two rooms is altogether much too small for him—and it seems uncouth for a steppes barbarian woman to have such an excellent apartment when the cousin of the Retired Emperor goes wanting."

Ling smiled. "Do as you like in this instance, mother."

Huian smiled back, but with an edge. "Wonderful. I will have her things moved immediately."

 _Sorry, Lan Fan._  "Is that all you wanted?"

"You insult me." She squeezed his elbow with her nails. "One would think you expected me to only visit you when I wanted something."

He shrugged. They passed a cluster of Lu girls, and all of them slid down into deep curtsy-bows that looked extraordinarily painful, considering they had had their feet bound. He made another note in his head to add footbinding to the list of things he was going to outlaw. Huian's own feet were bound; it meant that walking with her was an excruciatingly slow process that had her hip bumping against his every step. She was going to bruise him sooner or later.

"The Minister of the Left tells me that you have been going riding in the mornings."

Shen Liu, Ling thought. Since when had Huian Yao been talking to Shen Liu? He'd thought they'd stopped speaking to each other five years before the Emperor even died. "I was thinking that I've been cooped up in the palace for too long. Watching the sun come up is soothing."

"Shall I send anyone to accompany you?"

"That would rather defeat the purpose, don't you think?" He was fairly sure no one had realized, yet, that he was out riding with Lan Fan, but the shoe would drop soon. He wondered when the whispers about the emperor and the nomad would start—and when the Feng would start sniffing around Lan Fan's heels for imperial scraps.  _That's the whole point of it, after all,_ he told himself, and refused to consider the reason it rang false.

Huian wrinkled her nose again. "Are you certain? I can think of a number of cheery companions for you, if you would like them."

"I'm content on my own," said Ling, and he let a tinge of warning creep into his voice. "Though I thank you for your consideration."

She hummed, and said nothing. He wondered if he would have to distract her with a project in order to keep her from sending Shen Liu's candidates for empress along with him in the mornings. Though as soon as people saw him riding with Lan Fan, that would be happening anyway. There was a rustle in the back of his head, an echo of Greed.  _Man up, pissant._

They came to a side-corridor, and at his side, Huian Yao paused. "My apologies for abandoning you so soon, imperial majesty, but I forgot—I must go and assist Bolin Qiao's wife with preparing her daughter for her first Gathering." She leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. She smelled of powder and beeswax. "I will see you at the ceremony, my son."

"Good luck," he said, and she bowed one last time before swaying down the hall towards the Northern Ward. He waited until she'd disappeared around the corner before letting his sleeves fall back. Ling looked down at his hands—they had clenched themselves into fists—and let out a breath, slowly forcing himself to relax. He glanced at Gen Chang. The guardsman had kept his eyes carefully on the wall above Ling's head, pointedly not looking at either the Emperor or the Empress Dowager.

"Well," said Ling. "Crisis averted. No more broken vases."  _Today_.

"Well done, imperial highness," said Gen Chang. Ling stared at his palm for a moment, and then hid his hands in his sleeves again.

"Maybe." He flexed his fingers behind the safety of the silk, ignoring how his forefingers ached. Ling let out a breath, and glanced behind him at his shadow, out of habit. The eyes that looked back at him, though, were foreign and strange. Ling shook himself briskly. "Shadow, with me. We're going to the Gathering."

Peng inclined his head. Gen Chang dropped away.

They walked.

* * *

"Shubiao hasn't reported in."

Huli spun the stolen knife between his fingers. The blade was scary-sharp—he'd realized that when he'd slipped the first time and nearly slit his forefinger down to the bone. Even with alkahestry, the cut had left a mark, the same as the gouge deep in the back of his hand. Across the tavern table, Sheng made a mark on her slate with a sliver of chalk, and didn't meet his gaze.

They had commandeered the tavern in Weiqu the day after the botched assassination, just in case someone came looking in Xuanwu. This new place had an owner that was more scared of Huli and Sheng than he was of the Sun God, and only wore the medallion out of a misplaced sense of self-preservation. At least his terror meant the man wouldn't rat them out at the first possible opportunity, like the last innkeeper would have. Huli tossed the knife into the air and caught it by the flat of the blade, ignoring the way that the innkeeper's boy watched him with wide eyes. "When was he supposed to?"

"Twelve hours ago."

He flipped the knife again. "And why didn't you tell us earlier?"

Dushe, Shubiao's partner, flinched a little. For a man who'd been named for a viper, he was a babbling coward. "Sometimes he does this. But it's been too long. I think he's been captured."

"If he'd been captured, he'll have taken the cyanide pill." Still. Huli swore under his breath. He'd been depending on at least a  _little_ information on Ying (or whatever her real name was) before their spies had been caught. Then again, he couldn't exactly expect a bunch of half-converts to do the job the way someone from New Haven would. He closed his eyes for a moment. "But if he hasn't, we'll have to leave him there. If he was dumb enough to get himself captured, he's of no use to us."

Dushe flinched. "But—"

"We have a purpose here, Dushe." His eyes dropped to Dushe's collar, to the medallion hidden beneath his jacket. Then he focused on Dushe's face again. It was plastered with sweat and scars. "If you have a problem with how I manage things, then you can challenge my authority, or you can get out of this tavern. It's your choice."

Dushe was smarter than his partner. He knew that both of those options meant he'd be dead in an alleyway in less than a day. He swallowed hard, and inclined his head, and Huli felt a small coal of satisfaction come to life in his belly.

"Yes, marshal," said Dushe.

Sheng erased her chalkboard in one swipe of her wrist, and began to draw. He could just barely see, out of the corner of his eye, the growing skeleton of angel wings. When she cleared her throat, all of them fell silent. "The fact remains," she said, turning her chalkboard so she could get at the fletching, "that there is an obstacle between us and one of our primary goals, and that all obstacles must be eliminated. Huli, Dushe, Mao—" the newest recruit, a girl of no more than sixteen, perked her head up—"the three of you will work together. Eliminate this woman. I don't care how you do it. Get rid of her. She cannot stop us from taking out the triplets. Not again. We cannot afford failure."

Huli drove Ying's knife deep into the table. Next to him, Dushe flinched again. Mao, though—Mao offered Sheng a curving, creepy smile, and the teeth she'd had alkahestrically sharpened to match a cat's canines glinted in the sputtering candlelight.

"Yes, mistress."

Sheng glanced at Huli for a moment. She went back to her picture. Huli leaned back in his chair, and wondered if he was pissed off or turned on or both. "Lang," she said, and the man by the door perked his head up and loped over to them. "Mao has her own assignment. You will assist her in any way she requires."

Lang glanced at Mao. Mao hissed at him.

"Huli." Huli looked up through his bangs to find Sheng watching him carefully. "If your squad finds Shubiao, you will kill him. He has been caught. If he has not already been killed, he will have provided intelligence, willingly or not. We cannot afford mistakes like that."

Dushe's lips parted, but he didn't speak. Huli pressed a hand to his heart.

"Yes, mistress."

Sheng tossed her chalkboard onto the table. Wings on a blazing sun. No shading, no shadows. It looked like a child's drawing, but the gut-deep recognition of it sizzled in his gut. She clasped her hands together, and they all copied her, Dushe a moment later than the others. Huli made a careful note of htat in the back of his mind. Even if Dushe had converted unwillingly, if he kept making stupid mistakes like that, he was going to end up as dead as his damn Nohin partner.

"May the Sun God provide," Sheng said, simply. Huli licked his lips and joined in the chorus.

"May the Sun God provide for us all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> YES. Finally. Things are happening. FINALLY. You guys have NO IDEA how much agony I've gone through to get us all to this point. Like I said a few chapters ago: there's a reason for why everything is happening the way it is (with bursts of motion and then long slow periods where there's a lot of introspective angst and non-momentum [thanks Lan Fan]) but it was so freaking hard to write. I'll probably be going through it at a later date to see if there's any way I can trim it down (though unfortunately at this point it looks unlikely because I needed every single word of the past six chapters or so to get everyone where they needed to be, emotionally, mentally, and physically) but at this point, everything is where it needs to be.
> 
> Thank you for suffering through my longwindedness, and we've kicked off the second part of Swallows on the Beam, which I've tentatively titled Stuff Explodes. The first part (from the first chapter until Cyanide) was called Observation Deck.
> 
> So yeah. Hope y'all enjoy it from now on because it's going to get kind of bloody and awesome.
> 
> Speaking of: I tend to post a lot of my "unofficial" soundtracks on Tumblr, so if any of you are interested in my weird musical tastes, pop on over.


	13. Crescent Blades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Seiankyou Nobles' Quarters I," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.  
>  "To The South," from the _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ soundtrack.  
>  "Dai Li," from the _Avatar: the Last Airbender_.
> 
> Trigger warning: sexual innuendos, crass insults. There's also slash, but, I mean, this is AO3. I highly doubt it's anything y'all haven't seen before a million times.

**Twelve: Crescent Blades**

Lan Fan turned on the balls of her feet, just in time to keep yet another Yao cousin she didn’t recognize from slamming her with his shoulder, and glanced up at Xinzhe. Lien Hua had vanished with one of the Cao boys as soon as they’d ventured into the Gathering Hall. Dong Mao had, of course, disappeared the moment Lan Fan had turned her back. So she’d been left with Xinzhe: Xinzhe, who kept making double-entendres and trying to snake an arm around her waist. Xinzhe, who told terrifically perverted jokes and seemed to hate everyone in the world with equal honesty and savagery.

It wasn’t the worst turn of events, she thought, swirling the Amestrian champagne she’d managed to scrounge in its glass. At least if she was standing next to Xinzhe she knew that most people (the Yao cousins, it seemed, were an exception) weren’t going to walk up to her and spit in her face for being an upstart nomad girl.

That is, until Xinzhe opened his mouth.

“So,” said Xinzhe. Lan Fan took another sip of champagne. “I hear you’ve been going riding with the Emperor.”

Lan Fan nearly spat her mouthful of champagne all over Xinzhe’s pretty robes. Instead, she choked. Xinzhe’s smirk deepened as she clapped a hand over her mouth and forced herself to swallow. The bubbles stung at her throat. Lan Fan coughed, and then stared up at him through watery eyes. “How—”

“You might think you’re being ignored, little Feiyan, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t eyes on you. People like watching what the outcasts do, you know, just to make sure they don’t follow our footsteps.” He knocked back the rest of his own champagne, and when Lan Fan went to put her glass down, he seized it and finished hers as well. She frowned at him.

“Are you sure you that you should be drinking so much? The ceremony hasn’t even started yet.”

“Oh, little nomad.” He looked ready to ruffle her hair, if he hadn’t grown up with Lien Hua. Lan Fan was fairly sure that his sister would have bitten his fingers off if Xinzhe had touched her hair at an event like this. “So naïve. It’ll take at least three more glasses of this stuff before I start getting dizzy.”

She scowled at him.

“The Emperor is more closely watched than you can imagine, Feiyan. You can’t have expected to keep it a secret forever. Haven’t you noticed Shen Liu looking at you like he wants to flay you alive?”

“He always looks at me like that,” said Lan Fan without thinking, but sure enough, when she turned and caught the Minister of the Left’s eye, he gave her a particularly filthy glare. She fought back the urge to stick her tongue out at him—she wasn’t twelve anymore—and firmly turned her back. “He’s the one who started the whole inbred nickname.”

“You overestimate his creativity.” Xinzhe signaled to one of the servers, and collected another flute of champagne. Lan Fan waited until the server had walked away, and then took it from him without a word. He scowled, but slipped his hands into his pockets again nonetheless. “People have been calling the nomads inbred since before his grandparents were born. It’s not particularly unique.”

“It’s still repulsive.”

“They used to only let the Emperor marry the imperial cousins,” said Xinzhe. Lan Fan, who had known this, but preferred to forget, let the nausea show on her face.

“That’s disgusting.”

“They’re also imperial, and get to do whatever they want.” He took the flute back from her. “They were trying to preserve the purity of blood—that’s what they were claiming, anyway. So far as I can remember, it didn’t end well.”

He sipped at her champagne. Lan Fan waited until he was watching the empty throne again, and then filched it back. “Speaking of cousins, Lien Hua mentioned off-hand a few weeks ago that all of you are. Imperial cousins, I mean.” Xinzhe glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and Lan Fan tasted the champagne. She could taste no poison, no additives, just bubbles. At least she knew one server wasn’t after the Fengs tonight. “Should I bow every time I speak to you, now?”

“When’d she tell you?”

“Night of the Chang party.” Lan Fan hesitated. “And she didn’t actually even tell me. She just mentioned it while we were talking about something else.”

He blinked at her, and then grinned. “If you’ve known for that long, then there’s no point. You’ve seen Lien Hua’s color-coding tantrums, all the mystique is gone.”

She snorted into the champagne.

“So?” He reached forward, and took the flute. “What’s he like?”

“What’s who like?”

He gave her a _don’t be stupid_ look. “The Emperor, Idiot.”

For some reason, her temper flared. “You tell me. He’s your cousin.”

Xinzhe rolled his eyes. “There’s a difference between being admitted to the imperial presence for political talks—which hasn’t happened for us yet, by the way, his schedule is either really awful or he’s avoiding us—and actually going out riding with him alone when decent people should be asleep. At this point _you_ know him better than I do, and I’m technically his brother.”

“We’re not alone. The Shadow—” there it was again, the stab to her heart “—was there.”

“The Shadow.” He raised the champagne to his lips, thoughtfully, but he didn’t drink. “I’ve heard stories about her. It’s a she, apparently,” he added, even though Lan Fan hadn’t asked. “And she can move faster than the wind. She’s killed every man who’s come up against the Emperor. Ling Yao has one hell of a watchdog.”

In spite of herself, she felt a slow curl of satisfied pleasure in her gut. At least there was one person in the imperial court who didn’t think she was there to be an easy tumble. Lan Fan spun the fan that Niu Lu had forced on her between her fingers and said nothing, keeping her face carefully neutral.

“Still,” Xinzhe said, and she jumped a little. “He’s meeting you with only his Shadow. That’s an honor, Feiyan. Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“Why?” She shrugged. “All we talked about was the state of things in Ma-guo.” Which had been entertaining, to say the least, considering what she knew about Ma-guo was what little Suyin had told her. Not that it particularly mattered, anyway. “Besides, it was only one ride.”

“One of the horse-boys told Wen who told Ning who told _me_ that you now have a standing arrangement with him. Every morning at dawn. Unescorted.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Something you want to tell us, little swallow-girl? About something else big and imperial that only _you’ve_ seen?”

Lan Fan flushed wildly, and told him, in pithy terms, exactly what he could do with his filthy mouth. She was pretty sure it wasn’t physically possible, but it still made Xinzhe grin, and Mingli Chen, who was coming up behind him, wince. Lan Fan took the half-full glass back from Xinzhe. “Hello, Chen.”

“Ma.” He inclined his head. “Xinzhe. Is there a reason why she’s telling you to—” he glanced around him, and then repeated what Lan Fan had said in low Aerugan. Her cheeks burned. Somehow, it sounded even worse in translation.

“She’s embarrassed because the Emperor’s dragging her out of bed at the crack of dawn to go _riding_. Every day.” Xinzhe made his eyebrows dance again. “ _Alone_.”

She punched him in the shoulder with her automail fist, a bit harder than she should have, softer than she’d intended. He swore, and whacked her with his hip.

Mingli stared at her, ignoring the idiocy. “You never mentioned that.”

Lan Fan rolled her eyes, and snapped open her fan. Her face was still sizzling. “The both of you are awful gossips. Besides, like I said, it only started yesterday.”

“ _Only—_ ” Mingli took his glasses off, cleaned the lenses on his sleeve, and shoved them back onto his face, squinting at her. “I know that the Ma have a different perspective on…on royalty, I suppose, than Xing does, but you _are_ aware of the honor you’re being accorded? The Dawn Emperor barely trusts anyone. He’s too radical, even though he’s only been on the throne three years. Shen Liu’s going crazy trying to keep him on a leash, and most of the time he can barely even manage that. For him to invite you somewhere…that means a lot, Ma.”

Lan Fan hid her smile deep inside, tucked away in the memories of the afternoons she’d spent training with Master Ling and talking about how, when he was emperor, he would change Xing. Even if was getting off to a slower start than they’d always hoped, at least it was starting. Then she realized both Xinzhe and Mingli Chen were still staring at her, and her back reared up again. She scowled.

“Of course I know it means a lot,” she said. “I know what a great honor it is for a bastard horse-born lowlife like me to be able to even _speak_ to the Emperor. So I bow and I’m nice to him and everything.” She handed Xinzhe the champagne back, because he was staring at it mournfully, and added, “Thank you for your concern, Chen, Feng.”

“Ouch.” Xinzhe’s smile turned lazy. She was starting, after over a month of watching the man, to finally figure out the differences between Xinzhe Feng and the actual Xinzhe. The more languid the smile, the less it meant. “You’re biting tonight, Ma. You’d think with all these protests something was actually happening for you to get all secretive about.”

Lan Fan bit her tongue. Xinzhe was right; she wasn’t usually this direct with any of them. But her blood was pumping and her whole body was twitching with nervous energy, and she didn’t have the patience to be tentative with them anymore. She ran her fingers through her hair, anxious. “Sorry,” she said, and to her surprise, she realized she meant it. “I…know you didn’t mean it that way. Probably.”

“Not probably,” muttered Mingli, who actually looked hurt. “I don’t…you’re not what they say you are.”

 _I’m not what any of you think I am_ , she thought, but she kept her mouth shut. Xinzhe watched her for a long chilly moment, his eyes like marbles. Then his face relaxed. The smile became more natural. He finished the champagne, and said, “My sister’s rubbed off on you.”

Lan Fan shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Of course I say so,” he said, happily. He finished the champagne, and set the flute aside. “It’s _great._ I can’t wait to see you two gang up on a Yao.”

Mingli muttered something about the apocalypse.

There was a rush of movement. A bell sounded. The Empress had arrived. Lan Fan fell into a bow along with everyone else as Huian Yao settled in her place in the Dowager’s Throne, two steps to the left and three before the Emperor’s seat. She looked the same as she always did, Lan Fan thought: like a cat who had managed to get into the henhouse. It was only once the bell rang again, and everyone could rise, that she realized Xinzhe was staring at Huian Yao with a look on his face that could only be termed as loathing. Lan Fan hesitated; then she brushed her fingers against his sleeve, lightly. “Xinzhe?”

The indolent smile returned. “Feiyan?”

She flicked her eyes to the Empress’s chair, and then back to Xinzhe. “Is everything all right?”

Xinzhe brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. Lightly, so light she thought she’d imagined it, he ghosted his index finger over the back of her shoulder. When she didn’t pull away, he curled an arm around her and pulled her into his side, the way he did with Lien Hua sometimes when they were talking about their uncle. Lan Fan blinked. There was something both perfunctory and desperate about the touch, something extraordinarily careful; he was, she realized, managing to avoid every inch of her skin, while at the same time keeping her close enough for her to feel his heartbeat through her arm. Considering this was Xinzhe, who took every opportunity to flirt to the point of grossness, it almost frightened her.

She looked up at him with wide eyes. Xinzhe didn’t meet her gaze. “It’s fine,” he said, but he didn’t let go. “Everything’s fine. Don’t look at me like that.”

Lan Fan hesitated. Mingli Chen was very pointedly keeping his eyes away, as though they were doing something lewd. She could hear people whispering. It was when she heard the words “inbred horse-wife” that she finally cracked. Lan Fan put her human arm around Xinzhe’s waist. His hair tickled her temple as he leaned down, just enough to whisper. “I hate her,” he said, and she looked up at the Empress Dowager again, at Huian Yao’s aristocratic nose and bowed lips. “I hate her more than anything.”

She made a noise which might have been called soothing if it hadn’t been so scratchy, and leaned her head against his shoulder. She wasn’t, she thought, the best person in the world to go to for comfort. She rarely liked touching people. The Huo were not particularly affectionate in that way, and besides; if she was doing her job right, she wouldn’t have to touch people except to kill them anyway. But being a spy was different, and altogether more human, and when Xinzhe let out a breath and set his cheek against the top of her head, she wondered if it wasn’t entirely bad, after all. It wasn’t though Xinzhe was touching her just to touch her; for the first time, she thought, he wasn’t actually trying to flirt with her at all.

She felt the shred of intent ghosting through the Pulse in the instant before Xinzhe pulled away from her. Lan Fan wondered if he’d caught it too—sharp and clear, like broken glass, a death wish that had vanished almost as soon as it had appeared. Too soon for her to register who it had come from. It made her uneasy. If Xinzhe _had_ felt it, he didn’t acknowledge it. He clapped Mingli on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go find more champagne.”

Mingli frowned at him. “How much have you had already?”

“Not you too.” Xinzhe glanced back at Lan Fan. “You’d think you were both convinced that I’m a drunken slob.”

“Some days,” said Mingli, his lips twitching, “it’s difficult to tell you’re not.”

“Lies.” Xinzhe sniffed. “Filthy lies. Come on.”

Mingli opened his mouth to respond, but then she heard it. The drums had started. Small ones at first, barely a ripple in the air, but then one of the musicians struck the Great Drum, and the hall fell quiet. She could feel the drumbeat pounding in her ribcage. The Empress Dowager Huian Yao was already on her feet, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her lovely gown; her hair was covered with dangling charms. Lan Fan brushed a strand of alkahestry-dyed red hair out of her face, and glanced at Xinzhe. “I should go stand with my cousin.”

Mingli nodded. Xinzhe rolled his eyes. “Abandon us for the Yaos, then, if you must.”

“I can’t help it that the Yaos are my cousins,” she said, in a very low voice. Xinzhe studied her for a moment, and then the lazy smile came back.

“I suppose not. Damn all families.”

Lan Fan frowned. But she gathered up her skirts in her hands, and started scooting her way through the crowd towards Suyin and the Commander, who were standing a handful of yards from the imperial dais. Niu Lu was with them, her eyes lowered, head covered by a delicately embroidered sheet of silk. The drumbeat was pounding in her skull, vibrating up through her feet. She felt as though she should be trembling, but her hands were steady as stone.

The Commander looked harried and harassed, she thought. One of the Guards (thankfully not Gen Chang, who would have made her in a moment) was muttering into his ear, one hand on the Commander’s shoulder; he was shifting anxiously with his sword. A new guard, Lan Fan thought. Untested. He was reaching out with the Pulse, though, so he wasn’t completely naïve. As she approached, he bowed to the Commander and withdrew.

Suyin reached out to her with both hands, and Lan Fan took them.

“There you are.” Suyin smiled. “Where on earth have you been, cousin? I’ve been looking for you. You’ve been so busy lately I haven’t had a moment with you to myself.”

“I’ve been with the Feng,” she said. “Lady Feng requested my assistance with color coding. And I’m so sorry; things have been getting out of hand for me lately.” She glanced at the Commander. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing. It just seems as though the Cao boys have started a fight in the gardens.” Shan blew air out through his nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever met more thoughtless, underhanded, useless ballscratchers in all my life.”

Suyin wrinkled her nose and smiled simultaneously. “Oafs. But I’m glad to see you taking an interest in court life, cousin. I was beginning to feel that all I had brought you here to do was to suffer, what with all the nasty notes you had to burn.”

Lan Fan shook her head, still watching Shan. The Cao were the ones that had spirited away Lien Hua. Had the fight been about her? She couldn’t ask, exactly, but she did cock her head, and he tapped two fingers against his temple. _Eyes on the prize,_ he mouthed at her, and she glanced back at Suyin to find her “cousin” reaching forward to pull her into a hug.

Suyin smelled like crushed jasmine blossoms and a hint of vanilla, and her silks were so fine they slid like scales over Lan Fan’s fingers. Her breath was hot against Lan Fan’s ear. “Shan told me. How long do you need?”

Lan Fan closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the hug, just a bit. Her back was to the imperial seat, and she thought she felt eyes on her; the back of her neck was prickling with the force of the scrutiny. The beat of the Great Drum was making her ribs shudder. “As long as you can give me.”

“The Feng have a meeting with His Majesty after the familial presentations. That’ll be your chance. We can give you half an hour.” Suyin pulled back, and smiled. “I can’t believe you’re here, cousin, truly. We make history tonight. The first Ma at the Gathering in generations.”

Lan Fan nodded, and wiped her sweaty palm on the inside of her pocket. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose we shall.”

The drums halted. As one, the room turned towards the imperial dais, and bowed. The ornaments and charms that Niu Lu had braided into her hair clipped her cheeks and jaw as Lan Fan bowed with them, her hands folded into her sleeves, her hair tangling in front of her eyes as she sensed the Emperor make his way along the back row of the dais, down two steps, and to the carved oak throne. She could feel Lien Hua, too: she was frozen on the threshold of the Gathering Hall, her _qi_ signature pulsing with irritation. Lan Fan clutched her own _qi_ closer to herself, and closed her eyes. The twin Shadow was a hint of muffled black-and-gold behind the throne, still and focused.

“Well met, cousins,” said Master Ling, and the Fifty Families murmured back to him

“Well met, Imperial Majesty.”

“You may rise.”

Lan Fan felt a touch on the small of her back as she straightened. It was Shan. He leaned forward, his voice so low that she could barely make it out amidst the rustling silks and soft buzzing of the crowd.

“Brat knows how to make an entrance.”

Lan Fan glanced up at the Emperor through her eyelashes, and blinked. Master Ling had braided his hair. At first, she wasn’t quite sure why that stuck out to her, out of everything. The robes were traditionally imperial: a crimson over-robe with gold as an underlayer, high-collared, wide-sleeved, and draping down past his feet. Curled shoes with embroidery and clusters of gems. A high crown set with sandalwood inlay. The tail of his braid hung over his shoulder, possibly the least-assuming bit of the costume he’d put together, and Lan Fan pressed her lips tight together and scolded herself for noticing something so silly. _I hope he’s using the spiked strap he stole from me, in case someone grabs it._ Ponytails and braids were both dangerous—they offered a place for an assailant to grab hold—but braids were, perhaps, the more vulnerable of the two, simply because it meant all your hair was bound into a rope instead of falling free. Then she realized, as she looked harder, what everyone was whispering about.

“The collar is a Drachman design,” Shan said into her ear. “And the sash—”

“Aerugan geometric symbols,” she breathed. She looked at the braid again, and couldn’t help it. Her face softened into a smile, which she hid behind her fan before anyone noticed. Her heart squeezed. He was honoring Amestris and the Amestrians they loved, in his own way, in a way that no one except her and Mei Chang would ever pick up on. Even if he had combed his hair back from his face (he could do nothing less, after all, with the crown on his head) he was wearing his hair like the Fullmetal Alchemist.

The Emperor raised his arms, and the crowd fell silent. Lan Fan couldn’t help but think he looked quite pleased with himself for it. She glanced at her feet again before she could make a fool of herself—even the prideful Feiyan Ma would know better than to stare at the Emperor by now.

“Brethren.” He paused. “Welcome to the Gathering.”

The crowd rumbled in satisfaction.

“Since ages beyond counting, the Fifty Noble Families of Xing have collected in these halls to decide the fate of the Empire.” He folded his hands within his sleeves. Lan Fan clenched her automail fingers behind her back. “This year’s Gathering is, in one way at least, historic. We offer greetings to our northwestern cousins, the first to attend this ceremony in over fifty years.”

Lan Fan felt her face heat, and forced her gaze to the dais again. Something crackled down her spine like ball lightning when she realized he was looking right at her. He’d looked at her before—he’d looked at her a thousand times, more—but not like that. Never quite like that. Like a veil had been lifted, she thought. Like a wall between them had finally fallen away, and he was really looking, really _seeing_ her. Or finally letting her see him, all masks gone. She didn’t know why, but it was true. She met his gaze, and even if she was blushing, and even if she knew that this—this excitement that she was feeling, this joy, was impossible, she couldn’t look away.

The shield came down, quick and sharp. She was close enough to see the way his mouth tightened, how his eyes shadowed. Master Ling looked away, and when he spoke again, his voice was stable and strong. Her mouth felt dry. Lan Fan closed her eyes to steady herself.

“We stand on the threshold of a new era.” Behind him, Huian Yao stiffened, her smile sticking to her face like honey. Lan Fan glanced at Shen Liu, and realized the Minister of the Left had turned raw-beef red. “We stand, and our families and our people stand with us. We are looking through a door into a new world of peace, and prosperity, and innovation of all sorts. The people of Xing have led the world for generations, and with the willing assistance and cooperation of all those standing here, we will only achieve greater heights in the years to come.”

Polite applause filled the hall, and the Emperor’s quirk of a smile deepened. He was playing with them, she thought; teasing the dissenters with threats he couldn’t quite voice. Threats of the future, she supposed—of changes that the status quo would hate. She clapped a little louder than she had to, and smiled a little wider, and she wasn’t quite sure if she was kidding herself when she thought she saw him catch her eye again. But it was so fast she could never be quite certain.

“Tonight is a night for crossing new thresholds of all sorts,” said the Emperor. “We welcome new representatives of the families we have always cherished to our side. We shall forge new alliances, and mend those bonds deserving of it. Together, we shall create a newer, stronger empire—a newer, stronger Xing. For no country is ever built alone, and if we work together, then no enemy we face can hope to succeed.”

Niu Lu leaned forward, and whispered in Lan Fan’s ear.  “He’s playing a dangerous game, this one.”

Lan Fan glanced back at her. “What do you mean?”

“He’s declared war on those who oppose him,” said Niu Lu. “Not in so many words, of course, but the sentiment’s there. Can’t you hear it?”

 _Mend those bonds deserving of it._ Lan Fan looked at Shen Liu again, and realized the Minister of the Left looked ready to have an apoplectic fit, right there in the Gathering Hall. Bao Zhang, the Minister of the Right, had finally emerged from his offices for the one event he could not afford to miss; he sat in his place, eyes closed, hands folded placidly, a small smile on his lips. A court smile, she thought, but there was a touch more amusement there than there should have been for a smile that meant nothing.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard it.”

“The Gathering is opened,” said Master Ling. “Fortune be with you in your endeavors.”

He lowered his hands, and as one, the people in the Gathering Hall swept into bows, murmuring the traditional response. “Fortune be with you all your days.” Lan Fan mouthed it along with the others, but added something else, silent, desperate. _Don’t let this turn out like the coronation._ The murderous intent she had felt earlier still pricked at her mind as the announcer came forward and called out for the Yao to present themselves to the throne.

The Commander was looking at her, a funny smile on his lips. Lan Fan cocked her head. “What?”

“You felt it earlier, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” The smile grew wider. Shan Yao shook his head. “What?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Lan Fan scowled, and wished for her mask. She could feel the doppelganger Shadow behind the throne, and wished there were more guards around the dais. “Commander,” she said, but Shan touched one finger lightly to her lips, that stupid smile still on his face. Niu Lu’s eyes were crinkling too, as though she was hiding a secret behind her veil.

“Don’t worry,” he said. The announcer called for the Zhou. “The Emperor is in no danger tonight, except maybe from himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re too curious, cousin.” He tapped her nose. Lan Fan pulled back, rubbing at the spot, and ignored how he snorted. “Be patient. All will come clear in the end.”

She frowned, and turned to watch the procession. The Commander, at least, she trusted.

* * *

 

_Mine._

He didn’t often have flashbacks to Greed. Not lately. He’d been getting better at it, though there were occasions when desire—for anything, for everything—hit him so hard that it felt as though he was starving. Like the marrow had been carved out his bones, and the only thing that could fill it was the world. But the vicious jealousy that came from the marks Greed had left on him was rare, now. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from snarling when someone else touched his things. It was, after all, an irrational response, fueled solely by the presence of the homunculus that had been gone for years. It wasn’t normal and it wasn’t right, to view people he cared about so jealously.

But he still wished he could turn to grapheme, so he could peel Xinzhe Feng’s skin off, piece by piece, starting with the soles of his feet and working all the way up to his scalp.

_Mine._

Possessive. Dark. Hungry. His blood was pounding in his head. He could feel Lan Fan watching him carefully. Of course she would have felt it. She might not have realized where it had come from—he’d crushed the spark of intent too fast for anyone to identify its source, even Lan Fan—but she had most certainly felt it. There was too much worry in her face for her not to have. Want. Need. Fury. He found Xinzhe Feng in the crowd, talking quietly with his brother, and dug his fingernails into the arm of his chair. _No_. He would not fall to this again. Having a person’s loyalty was different from ownership, no matter what his mother thought. Caring about someone was not the same as possessing them. Feng had done nothing worthy of punishment, not really, but his whole body was screaming for it. _Mine. Mine. Mine._

He glanced at Lan Fan again, when he knew she wasn’t looking—she was talking to Suyin about something, and the streaks in her hair caught the light like flames—and swallowed hard.

_Breathe._

Greed—vicious, passionate, hungry—was still snarling at him. He pushed the instinct away. He’d already lost control once tonight, and over something as trivial and as momentary as a hug—he wasn’t about to do it again. Not in front of the court, and most certainly not in front of his mother, who was already watching Suyin Yao and Feiyan Ma as though she would like to have them killed and stuffed. Or deported. Or possibly both.

The Cao (the two youngest boys looking bedraggled, Aiguo with a bloody nose) were presented. Then the Xie. The Zhang. Bao Zhang left his chair, and crossed to the front of the dais, eyes lowered. Sometimes he forgot, Ling thought, that there was a Minister of the Right at all. The man never showed at court, unless it was to make reports about the progress of his work, and even then he usually sent one of his assistants. He looked tired; tall and spindly, rings under his eyes, ink-spattered fingers. There were three hoops in his right ear, two in his left. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, Ling thought in surprise. Younger than he remembered. Bao Zhang bowed at the waist. “Imperial eminence,” he said. “This one begs your forgiveness in being so long to attend to you.”

“You do important work for us, Zhang,” he said. “We hold no grudge against your absences.”

“Your eminence is as kind as this one remembers you being,” Bao Zhang said, and Ling couldn’t help it. He snorted.

“Have all those numbers addled your brain?”

“If there is any addlement to be had in this one, majesty, it is from birth, and not through work.”

Ling drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. “Come,” he said. “Take your place, Bao Zhang. I wish to speak to you.”

He heard his mother hiss. Bao Zhang bowed deeper.

“This one is honored, imperial majesty.”

Zhang took his place, and the announcements continued. The Chang. (Mei Chang looked particularly smug, Biyi Chang a nervous wreck. Gen Chang was somewhere along the walls, being guardly.) The Lu. The Liu. The Wang. The Ma. Lan Fan met his gaze and did not look away as she bowed, and placed her left hand over her right collarbone in the nomadic salute. Suyin copied her, but with her eyes lowered. Niu Lu, the alkahestrist maid, pressed her forehead to the floor. It was Lan Fan that held his gaze, though. She looked almost frightening, Ling thought, as he watched Lan Fan bow her head and back away. Like pure resolve, caught in flesh. So very different from the girl he remembered falling out of a peach tree.

“A pretty girl,” said Bao Zhang. Ling turned his head ever so slightly, but there wasn’t a single jot of judgment on Bao Zhang’s face. He looked more thoughtful than anything else. “There are many lovely young women here tonight, imperial majesty.”

“Are you and Shen Liu working together to get me married, Zhang? I won’t have it from you, too.”

“This one doesn’t even have a niece to present to your imperial eminence, so your eminence’s marital prospects are far from this one’s mind.” Bao Zhang shrugged. “This one thinks more of the account books, to be honest. But one does hear of imperial preference, even if one is locked away in libraries with no sunlight to be had for days.”

Ling smiled, and propped his chin in one hand. “Oh?”

“This one’s cousin is the Master of the Horse, majesty,” said Bao Zhang, and Ling definitely wasn’t imagining it. There was a tinge of amusement in the minister’s voice. “He keeps me informed. Besides, as an eternal bachelor, this one is always interested in tales of pretty young women taking the court by storm, even if the storm is of judgment rather than glory. Does the Lady Ma ride as well as her cousin?”

“She rides well. Far better than me, at least,” said Ling, and Bao Zhang smiled.

“Talented as well as beautiful, then.”

Ling hummed. “Don’t be a matchmaker.”

“This one only observes, majesty. This one has far too large a workload to plot anything, let alone imperial weddings.”

“Weddings?” said Huian Yao, and the fragile peace broke. “What on earth are you talking about, Minister? So far as I am aware, my son has no intention of marrying just yet.”

Ling turned to the Dowager Empress, his court smile settling back on his face.

“It was only a joke, mother. What do you think of the Gathering this year?”

“A lot of old foxes,” she said, “and a lot of young cocks who don’t have a clue what they’re doing.” She gave him a sideways smile. “And as Minister Zhang says, a lot of pretty women.”

Ling huffed. “Will none of you give it a rest? Marriage is off the table.” _For now, at least._ It was one of the few things about his imperial seat that he could put off, even if it would soon start to become problematic rather than annoying. He wondered how long it would take people to realize that he had no intention of filling the Lotus Hall with a fleet of wives. The sadist in him looked forward to seeing Huian Yao’s face when they did.

His mother made a face. “Have pity on an old woman, majesty. I want to see grandchildren before I die.”

“You’re about as old as I am stupid, mother,” he said, and she gave him a moonlike smile.

“Your kindness is appreciated, imperial majesty.”

The Bei. The Chen, with the bespectacled boy he had seen talking with Lan Fan. He studied Ling through his eyelashes, mouth pursed, eyes curious, but he didn’t speak. Then the Qiao. The Zhao. The Huang. Then, finally, the Feng, three cousins and their two maids. He gestured to the announcer, and the man—one of the Song, if he remembered right—stepped forward and handed Lien Hua Feng the small card marked with the imperial seal. She looked up at Ling, and just as quickly looked away again, but not before he saw the triumph burn like acid in her face. “This one is honored, eminence,” she said, and swept into an even lower bow.

He raised his hand in a silent dismissal, and settled himself in to wait.

The Gathering Hall had at least a dozen smaller rooms jutting off it. Some of them were secret, but most were not; one needed a place to talk politics in private on occasion, after all, and what better place to do that then the Gathering? Once the final family—the Xiong, this year—bowed their way into the crowd, Ling excused himself (the festivities, after all, had started at the last drumbeat) and went to wait in the seventh Gathering room, which had walls embossed with _kirin_. Bao Zhang was standing outside the door; he had requested his own audience, and there was no reason for Ling not to give him one. Peng stood behind Ling’s chair, hands behind his back, eyes sharp through his mask. Ling glanced back at him.

“Keep an eye on them,” he said. “If they attempt to probe you, don’t let them.”

Peng nodded, and folded his gloved hands behind his back.

It only took a few minutes for the Feng to make their way into the Kirin Room. They were, the three of them, like mirror-glass, broken reflections of each other. He wondered which of the men had been looking for an alkahestrist. He suspected it more of Dong Mao, but there was something sly and thoughtful in the way Xinzhe was looking at him that he didn’t particularly like. This was why he’d brought them here, and why Lan Fan was in their midst—he had been right in thinking that these three needed someone to keep an eye on them.

“Life, health, and strength to you, Imperial Eminence.” Lien Hua Feng swept down into an elegant bow, which ended with her entirely crumpled to the floor, forehead and knees touching the smooth lacquered wood. Her brothers mimicked her without question. “This one is honored beyond words to finally be admitted to your illustrious presence.”

So being kept waiting had grated on them after all. Ling kept the imperial smile pasted on, the one that said, _Ah, I see_ , and gave no further quarter. Xinzhe Feng—the smoother, more polished one, anyway, the one he _thought_ was Xinzhe Feng—glanced up at Ling through his bangs. There was a hint of appraisal, of a question, in his eyes. Dong Mao kept his head lowered and his _qi_ leashed, but not well enough for Ling to be unable to sense the roiling irritation that was filling him to the brim. Cocky, Ling decided. Cocky and mercurial with a bit of a chip on his shoulder, from the way he was being extraordinarily careful not to reveal his eyes.

“You don’t have to prostrate yourselves, cousins.” He left his chair, and when Lien Hua lifted her face, he had to fight back the urge to help her to her feet. Three years since he’d ascended and he still sometimes had to keep himself from reaching out to people, regardless if he trusted them or not. “How have you found the Imperial City?”

“Very well, Imperial Majesty.” It was Xinzhe that spoke this time, and there was a lazy sort of conceit in his voice that made Ling’s teeth grate. “Everything has been even more amazing than we expected. Including the company,” he added. “There are any number of beautiful ladies at court, a fact which this one’s uncle never deigned to inform us of.”

“Is that so?” Ling smiled again. “We are pleased you find it so.”

Xinzhe’s court smile could rival an actor’s. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and let Lien Hua speak again. “This one once again offers thanks and greetings to your imperial highness from our uncle, who hopes that we will be adequate replacements for all Feng dealings in this year’s Gathering. This one will tell you anything your highness wishes to know about Feng-guo.”

“Well, then, Princess Feng,” said Ling, and leaned back in his chair. “Why don’t you start with this group that we’ve heard of called the Fires Of God?” 

* * *

The gardens outside of the Gathering Hall were seeded almost solely with lotuses. Lan Fan sneezed, twice, as she stood beside the lotus pond, waiting until a cloud passed over the moon (it was, as nearly every October night in Xinjing was, drizzling outside) before shimmying her way up the tree to where she’d stowed her bag of supplies. The cloak she swung around her shoulders and buttoned down the front; her skirts she seized in both hands, rolled up, and tied around her hips. They would be wrinkled afterwards, but hopefully no one would notice. Her hair she pinned up, and then she pulled the hood over her head. The notebook and pencil she had shoved into the back went straight into her pocket. Lan Fan waited until the couple below her—a Song girl and a Wang boy, she thought—had passed behind another tree before running out along the branch and making the leap to the rooftops.

The Imperial City was enormous, a maze of interconnected rooftops and sudden holes. All of the roofs were made of terracotta, and none crunched under her feet as she took the apex of the roof at a run, holding the hood against her cheek with one hand. Her automail arm she kept tucked under the fabric; the moon was out, and full, and she couldn’t afford anyone noticing a flash of metal out of the corner of their eye. The majority of the imperial guard had been stationed to the Gathering Hall, but there were one or two guards who were still patrolling the rooftops, and she had to run along balconies and through one or two gardens to keep them from noticing her. By the time she finally reached the Sprout Garden, there were a few leaves in her hair, and she’d finally come up with an excuse as to why she could be back in the Feng rooms in the middle of an important ceremony.

“I left my earrings,” she told herself. She didn’t wear earrings, but that would mean someone having to get close enough to see that there weren’t any holes in her ears. She would have to rectify that, she realized—what sort of court woman didn’t wear earrings?

Lan Fan sat, tense, for exactly twenty-five seconds, in the boughs of one of the Sprout Garden trees. There was no one in the rooms; she could feel nothing, no _qi_ -signatures, and there wasn’t a single shred of movement through the rice-paper doors that she could make out. She dropped to the ground, soundless, and slipped her shoes off so she wouldn’t track mud or dust onto the bamboo matting.

No traps that she could see. She ran her knife along the seam of the two sliding doors, and felt nothing catch. No tape, no hair plastered to the doorframe. She bit her lip, and then closed her eyes. She could feel no alkahestrical traps, either, nothing under the floor mats or on the door itself. There was, she thought, nothing here, and the idea of it made her feel a little sick to her stomach. If there were no traps she could feel, then perhaps there were worse inside.

She slid the door open, stepped inside, and slid it shut behind her, stepping out of the puddle of moonlight so no one would see her shadow.

It was just as they’d left it, less than an hour ago. Her copy of _Tomiko’s Letters_ was still sitting on the low table. She fought back the urge to head straight for the secret safe—she only had half an hour, and who knew when she’d be able to get back in here?—and began instead to run her hands over the walls. There was no point in not checking for a secondary compartment, just in case.

Nothing behind the paintings. Nothing behind any of the furniture. She ran her fingers along the seam of the table and came up with nothing but dust. Lan Fan swore under her breath in Amestrian, and then stared at the ceiling for a moment. She could see nothing up there, no bulge, no dip in the wood. Besides, none of the Fengs were tall enough to get at the roof, anyway. Neither was she, for that matter.

She blew her hair out of her eyes, and then went into Xinzhe’s room.

He was, to her surprise, considerably less messy than she had anticipated. There was an unmade bed, certainly, but there was also a small bookshelf which seemed to be alphabetized, a window into the gardens which was closed and locked (no door, she noted, satisfied) and a trunk at the end of the bed. It smelled of rough soap and dust and something she’d long-ago figured out was just _boy_ , but also of something she thought she recognized from the Xu District Sevens Race which she couldn’t quite make out. Unlike Lien Hua, he seemed to solely read books about Xingese history. She went through all of them—there weren’t that many, after all—but found nothing other than small paper scraps he’d been using as bookmarks

The trunk could hold secrets quite easily. Lan Fan hesitated, and then pulled the pins from her hair, letting two alkahestry-died strands fall down into her face. She’d learned to pick locks as a side-job, something that Master Ling had always wanted to know, and had hired someone to teach him. She, of course, had simply tagged along.

It was a simple lock, only two tumblers, which meant her instincts were probably right. Xinzhe Feng wasn’t the sort to keep secrets in a trunk that could be so easily opened. She sifted through it anyway, her heart beating fast in her ears. Clothes—rough at the bottom, court-worthy on the top. When she dug her human hand in as deep as she could, she touched linen, and blinked. She drew it out. It looked like something that Xiaoqing’s father, Owais, had worn—a Qarashi headscarf. She sniffed it, curiously—horse-hair and Xinzhe’s soap—and then folded it up again and put it back where she’d found it. Her hand, she realized, was shaking. There was no reason at all for a person like Xinzhe Feng to own a Qarashi headscarf. None at all.

She hummed in triumph, and locked the trunk again.

Xinzhe’s room held nothing else of interest. She left, careful to listen to the way her footsteps made the floor creak (if there was one secret compartment, there could be another) and went into Dong Mao’s instead. It was much the same, in most respects; messier, but still dusty and male. A bed, a trunk, a painting. No bookshelf. Instead, there was a long, curved-blade spear in one corner, the blade covered with leather, the wood weathered and well-used. She touched it lightly with two fingers—it thrummed with traces of Dong Mao’s _qi_ —and then went through the trunk, which was not locked.

She spread out with her senses, and hissed. Something had stung at her touch—a box, she realized, getting on her hands and knees and peering under the bed. A box too far for her to reach, and one that was burning in her mind’s eye with alkahestry. There was a circle carved on the inside of the lid. Probably meant to destroy whatever was inside, if it was opened without the right key. Lan Fan cursed under her breath, and left the room. She didn’t have time to look for a key that Dong Mao probably carried with him, after all.

Lien Hua’s room she knew. She went through it anyway. The books held nothing. Neither did the closet. It was only after she’d set the door carefully back where she’d found it—half open, a scarf wrapped around the handle—that she made for the creaky floor.

She had to move the table in order to get at the mat, which she shifted to the side without much effort. Someone had smoothed the passage by peeling it up from the floor in the first place—a previous tenant, maybe, considering the way the wood had weathered around the chisel marks. The little compartment had an even smaller padlock around the catch, which she undid without much trouble; Lan Fan stuck the picks between her teeth, and rocked back onto her heels, levering the lid free of the wood and setting it aside.

Papers. Dozens of them. She reached in and heaved them out as a pile, sorting through them without disturbing them as much as she could. The first few packets were about trade and import/export values between Feng-guo and Aerugo; Lan Fan marked a few names, products, and price lists she didn’t recognize down in her notebook before setting those aside.

The next file made her hair stand up. Alkahestry circles. She sketched the first one out as best she could, a mix of stars and moons and alkahestrical knots; she was running out of time (her internal clock said she had five minutes left at most) and there was no chance she’d be able to copy all of them. She put the alkahestry papers aside, too, and hoped the first one would mean something to Princess Chang.

Feng family heritage registries. Their mother was named Cixi, she noted. Identity papers with finger-, toe-, and footprints of the baby Fengs. A letter from someone named Feng Mengyao.

She pulled the letter free.

_My dearest nephews and niece,_

_How goes Xinjing? Your mother sends you her love and greetings. She has been ill of late, and her hands are too shaky to hold a pen. I offer you her condolences on being unable to get a meeting with the Emperor as of yet. Time and breeding will tell._

_Your brother and sisters also send you their greetings, and ask that you bring back some of the best candy that the Imperial City has to offer. I don’t know what they mean by that—they couldn’t even come up with a name—but I trust you will do their request justice._

_Another village of firebrands was uncovered outside of Bianjiehu yesterday. It has been put to the torch. If these foreign bastards keep setting fire to our storehouses, we’ll see how they like it when they’re made to swallow flames themselves._

_I have heard from acquaintances that there is a tangle of Ma at court. Be careful with whom you associate, foxlings. The Cao have been keeping you in their thoughts, but there are others with whom we must speak who you have alienated through your fondness for the barbarian girl, regardless of the influence she holds._

_The meeting has been set for 21st October. 17-5-19-2-256-14-35-6/174-57-1-17-45-88-73-15._

_I will hear from you soon._

_Your uncle,_  
Feng Mengyao  
First District Governor, Feng-guo

Her hands were trembling as she wrote out the numbers, and summarized the letter in two quick sentences. Lan Fan collected the papers, put them back in order, dropped them all back into the compartment, and closed it. It was a code, most likely. A number-code, which could mean anything, what with all the characters of Xingese—not to mention the fact that the Feng triplets knew as many languages as the Emperor. But a code. Something to work on. Something to work _towards_. And a meeting, on October twenty-first— _that_ she could tail.

She felt them as she was clicking the little padlock shut again. Two _qi_ signatures. Persimmons and woodsmoke, heavy on the underside of her tongue. _Mingli Chen_ , she thought. And the other one—molten glass and cumin. Xinzhe Feng.

Lan Fan swore under her breath, and shoved the bamboo mat back over the compartment, pushing the seat cushions back to where they’d been. She should have sensed them earlier. She _would_ have sensed them earlier if she hadn’t had to crush her goddamn signature into a pulp every minute of the damn day. They were less than ten feet from the door now; she could hear their footsteps, Xinzhe talking softly. She ran her eyes over the room—nothing out of place that she could see—and lunged for the gardens, sliding the door shut behind her. The lock clicked just as the front door opened.

“—bitch of an Empress Dowager’s bad enough.” Xinzhe had managed to get his hands on more champagne. There was the slightest burr to his voice, and her nose was sharp enough that she could smell the wine on him through the door. Lan Fan pressed herself to the wall, and held her breath. She could go, she reasoned. Or she could see why Xinzhe had come back to his rooms in the middle of the Gathering. There was a grunt, and a snarl. “Damn table. The Emperor’s worse, though. I dunno if he’s stupid or—or scary smart, but he never stopped smiling. How in hell did he find out about the firebrands?”

“He’s the Emperor,” Mingli said, and he sounded extraordinarily unsympathetic. “And he became the Emperor through finding a path to immortality, which he then rejected for himself. I’d have to say he’s more intelligent than he wants people to know.”

Xinzhe giggled. She’d heard him drunk before, Lan Fan thought, but never quite this bad. She bit her lip. “Seeing the look on Shen Liu’s face when he was making that stupid speech, though. Makes it hard to hate him.”

“Shen Liu or the Emperor?”

Xinzhe made a rude noise. “Don’t be so damn facetious.”

“You would be the kind of drunk that gets a better vocabulary.” She heard a shifting noise, and then a thump, as though someone had sat down, hard. Her money was on Xinzhe. “Hey. I brought you back here so you could sleep it off before you made a fool of yourself less than halfway through the Opening Ceremony. Get up.”

“No,” said Xinzhe, and there was an edge to his voice that Lan Fan had never heard before. “Sit down with me.”

There was a long pause. She could see their shadows through the paper doors, Mingli standing, Xinzhe with his face turned up to him, hand on the table, one knee raised. Mingli shifted, ever so slightly; he pushed his glasses up his nose.

“I can’t,” said Mingli, and he was so quiet that Lan Fan had to strain to hear him. “Not when you’re drunk.”

“And not when I’m sober either, _apparently_ ,” Xinzhe said, his voice acidic and spitting. “What are you so damn scared of?”

“I don’t know,” said Mingli. “I think execution’s a pretty decent thing to be scared of.”

Lan Fan pressed closer to the wall, staring at their shadows. _Execution?_ There were any number of things that could get someone executed if you were talking about Lower Xinjing, but the Imperial City was different. Most nobles could talk their way out of everything. Unless it was an imperial command, a lot of death warrants were turned into “get out of town before I see you again” love notes. She dug her nails into the wood, and watched as Xinzhe shook his head.

“We wouldn’t be executed.”

“You’re the imperial cousin,” said Mingli. “ _You_ wouldn’t be executed.”

“I wouldn’t let you be executed.”

“Because you have so many miraculous inroads with the Emperor now after talking with him for twenty minutes?” Mingli stepped away. “I’m going back to the Gathering. Sober up, Feng.”

He turned, and Xinzhe lunged. As an attack, she thought, it wasn’t a particularly good one. He caught Mingli around the knees and knocked him to the floor, sure enough, but Mingli could have punched him in the head if he’d had a mind to. As it was, it sounded as though Xinzhe had knocked all the breath out of Mingli Chen’s lungs. There was a stifled swearword. “Feng, what the _hell—_ ”

It was only when she realized that Xinzhe was crouching over Mingli Chen, his knees on either side of Mingli’s hips and his hands braced near his shoulders, that perhaps they weren’t talking about dastardly plots after all.

“You used,” said Xinzhe, “to call me Xinzhe.”

Their shadows met, and parted. They looked at each other. Lan Fan’s face flamed. Then Mingli muttered something under his breath—she thought it might have been “I hate it when you do that”—and he reached up and pulled Xinzhe back down to him. It was only then that Lan Fan turned her back on them. Her heart was thundering in her chest. She waited until she was sure they wouldn’t hear, and then fled back the way she’d come, up the pillar and over the rooftops, back to the Gathering Hall. 

 _Oh._ She thought. _Oh._

The notes she’d taken burned in her pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So. Uh. Long chapter. Long, eventful chapter. Long chapter of fun. Lan Fan’s spy programming finally kicked in. Also I could FINALLY WRITE XINZHE/MINGLI YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I’VE BEEN WANTING TO DO THAT. From before both of them were introduced even.
> 
> Also mm-mm jealous!Ling where have you been all my life
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. I'm sick, can't hear out of one ear, am working on a thesis while my housemates bring the building down around my ears, etcetera, etcetera. It doesn't excuse me from NEVER RESPONDING TO ALL OF YOUR SWEET MESSAGES AGH. I love all of you, and please know that your comments are cherished dearly. I just suck royally at remembering to respond to people, no matter how much their notes matter to me. I love you all, and I'm so glad you're enjoying Swallows. 
> 
> Next chapter should be up soon. There's gonna be LingFan~


	14. Hook Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The difference between you and me, little cousin," said Suyin, "is that I know when a man's interested."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Soundtrack:  
> "People of the Moon's Theme" from _Okami_ soundtrack.  
> "Tangent," from _Transistor_ Official Soundtrack.  
>  "Terminal March," from _Bastion_ Official Soundtrack.
> 
> A quick note before y'all start reading: part of the reason why it took so long for me to post this chapter was because I was reticent of the reaction I was going to get for portraying Lan Fan in this specific way. Please be aware that in regards to her researching homosexuality, Lan Fan has grown up in a society where homosexuality and gay people are a) not discussed, b) often reviled, c) mocked and attacked, and d) just as often regarded as demonic. Queer people have never had it very good in China, and even in a faux-China like Xing is, I was trying to be true to that sort of idea. Lan Fan is, admittedly, a lot more open to the idea thanks to her experiences in Amestris, but the fact that Mingli and Xinzhe are gay is going to freak her out for a while.
> 
> I hope that seems in character and understandable to you all.
> 
> Also this chapter is a little short but since it's transitioning I ask for your patience.
> 
> Warning: There is torture in this chapter. Please be careful if this will trigger you.
> 
> I will be starting to add character lists at the start of every chapter so people know who is who and what they're doing in the chapter, since so many people have expressed confusion with all the names. So, here you go:
> 
> Lan Fan and Ling are obvious, as per usual.  
> Suyin: Ling's cousin in law, and a nomadic woman. Currently pregnant. Lan Fan's cover story is that she is Suyin's cousin from Ma territory.  
> Shen Liu: Minister of the Left and President of the We Hate Feiyan Ma club.  
> Mingli Chen: A friend of the Fengs that has been "tutoring" Feiyan Ma in court ethics. In a relationship with Xinzhe Feng.  
> Niu Lu: Lan Fan's maid and an alkahestrist trained by Princess Chang.  
> Shubiao: A member of the Fires of God, a Nohinra man who Lan Fan caught rummaging through her things a few chapters ago.

**  
Thirteen: Hook Sword**

"It's a literary cypher."

Lan Fan looked up from her copy of  _The House of the Earth_ , and blinked. Since it had been a grand total of two weeks since she'd last had a chance to interact with her "cousins," Suyin Yao had invited her to breakfast and then a long walk in the Ivy Maze. The last time she'd been here, she'd been nine years old and playing hide-and-seek with the boy everyone around her called  _prince_. Suyin had stopped in one of the inner gardens to peel off her shoes and stick her toes in running water, so Lan Fan had dropped down on the nearest rock and pulled out her book. If she hadn't finished at least half of it by the time Lien Hua found her again, heads would roll.

Suyin glanced up at Lan Fan through her eyelashes. She hadn't slept, Lan Fan was sure—just like the Emperor hadn't slept before their dawn ride, and Lan Fan herself hadn't slept after…well. After what had happened. She felt her ears heat a little, and stuck her nose back into the book. She couldn't sense anyone around, so she wet her lips, and then said, "The numbers?"

"It could be any number of things," Suyin said, bobbing her toes under the current. "But the fact that it's an even set of numbers makes me think that it's a literary cypher. The numbers would come in pairs, one of them a page number, the other the character. Pretty much impossible to break without the right book. There's probably a codeword involved as well, which will adjust the actual page-character correlation."

Her heart twinged. "Impossible to crack, then," she said, and turned the page without really seeing it. Then she realized her mistake, and turned back to the last paragraph. She had a feeling that the daughter of the destitute farmer was making a very good point about women's rights and she was just on the wrong side of dense to figure out everything the author was trying to say.

"Not impossible, but difficult." Suyin hummed under her breath, and lifted one foot from the man-made stream. Like any good court woman, her legs were hairless as a fish. Unlike other court women, there was a long scar down one calf that looked like a blow from a blade. She caught Lan Fan looking at it, and a wry smile—different from her sharky court smile, or her peony-bright lady smile—cracked across her face. "You're not the only one who's run into the Minari, cousin, remember?" She tucked her foot back under the water, and then added, "If you keep an eye out, you might find the book. You just have to pay attention."

Lan Fan stared hard at the paragraph about women's rights. "The Nohin man I captured. Has he said anything?"

"No." Suyin blew a lock of hair out of her face. "Never expected him to, not without incentive. Zealots never do."

"Do we know anything about him?"

"Sakari Kazuki was born in Song-guo, raised in nomad territory. The Sakari clan was massacred during the Nohin War." Lan Fan closed her eyes for a moment. If Suyin noticed, she didn't say anything. "His name wasn't listed amongst the dead, so we can assume he escaped. The fact that he's currently in our cells kind of points to the latter. He doesn't turn up after that, though. Not surprising, considering how low Nohin keep to the ground most of the time, especially the refugees. The Nohin who escaped the Sun's Cleansing don't exactly go boasting about their heritage."

"No," said Lan Fan. "They don't."

"Speaking of boasting." Careless of her headdress, her gown, and her shoes, Suyin flopped onto her back and spread her arms wide in the grass. "How goes it with His Imperial Majesty? I noticed you went riding with him again today."

"We have a standing arrangement," said Lan Fan, and focused on her book again. "I understand why other people would be interested, cousin, but not you. I thought Cousin Shan would have told you about it before His Majesty even asked  _me_."

"He did," said Suyin lightly. "But there's a difference between me knowing and you telling me."

Lan Fan wrinkled her nose. "Not particularly."

"Says you." Suyin flicked water at her. Lan Fan shifted her book out of the line of fire and kept reading. The look on Suyin's face was part exasperation, part affection (for some reason), and part  _for goodness sake don't be so damn coy_. "I suppose I should have expected you not to pick up on all the implications, cousin, considering your background."

"Like yours is any different," sniped Lan Fan, and then bit her tongue. She had  _not_ just said that. Suyin, though, just looked pleased, and she flicked water in Lan Fan's face again. This time she actually managed to hit.

"The difference between you and me, little cousin," said Suyin, "is that I know when a man's interested."

"He's not," said Lan Fan. A dull flush rose to her cheeks, made her throat ache. "Interested."

"Of course he is. Have you seen him go out riding with any other eligible young ladies at court? No."

"That's because—"  _of the job. Of my work. Of his._ They spent most of the time quietly, not speaking, because she knew better than anyone how much he needed quiet sometimes. When they did talk, it was in quiet metaphor and simile. She couldn't afford anything else, even if the Shadow  _could_ be trusted.

"I'm leaving," she said instead. "Once your baby's born."  _Once the job is done._ "I'm going, so there's no point in him…doing whatever it is you're thinking. He knows I'm leaving, and going back to where I belong."  _Back to the shadows._ "Besides," she added, "you're wrong. He would…never feel that way about me. I know it." Like she knew her blood and bones, like she knew the joints of her automail arm. Never. Ever. No matter what.

She thought of the look on his face when he'd caught her eye in the Gathering Hall, that single breath of unguarded heat, and then she shoved it away again.

Suyin looked at her for a long, hard moment. For an instant, Lan Fan could almost imagine having her as family. She could see it, vivid in her head: tents and horses and a cousin that was more like a sister. Tents that didn't catch fire, and family that didn't burn. Then Suyin closed her eyes again, and the moment passed. "Have you ever thought that maybe you're meant for more than a life in the background?"

"No," said Lan Fan. Euphemisms and metaphor, that's what her conversations had become lately. Tales and double-entendres. "I haven't."

"Maybe you should," Suyin told the sky. "I think you'd be good at it."

Lan Fan hesitated. Then, finally, she put her book down, peeled her shoes off, and curled her toes into the grass. She'd been wanting to do it for the past half-an-hour, and she didn't see the point of denying it anymore. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and rested her chin on top. "What makes you say that?" she asked, because she was honestly curious. There was nothing for her but the shadows, and there never had been, and no matter what Suyin was saying, no matter her reasoning, she had to wonder if Suyin was talking to Feiyan Ma, or to Lan Fan Huo. "I don't lie well. I don't have a good temper. And I'm not…" she gestured to the ground with her left arm. "Politics bores me."

"But you have a good heart," said Suyin. She rolled onto her hip, propped her chin in one hand. "Xing has enough of the politicos, the liars and the players. What this country—what this  _empire_ needs, I should say—is someone who tries to do the right thing, and who'll never give up in the trying of it. That's something you have, cousin. That's something you've always had, even if you never acknowledge it. I know it."

Lan Fan's nose wrinkled. Her eyes narrowed. Suyin might have been her cover, but she certainly wasn't Lan Fan's cousin. There was no  _always_ with them. There was the past month. She let out a huffing breath. "And when I trip and fall flat on my face in the mud, the rest of the empire can laugh at me, and the politicos can go on lining their pockets."

There was a breath of silence. Then Suyin sat up, pulled her feet out of the water, and collected her shoes. When she put down a hand to help Lan Fan up, Lan Fan took it, clasping Suyin around her slender wrist, surprised as always by the amount of strength held in that one fragile arm. When she was on her feet again, though, Suyin didn't let go. She held on, pulled Lan Fan closer, her voice going whisper-soft, her eyes hard.

"You'd trip, and fall, and roll to your feet again. And when you did, you'd rip their throats out." She lifted her free hand, set her fingers against the back of Lan Fan's neck, shook her a little. "Because that's the other half of justice.  _That's_ what you know. When someone turns their backs on what's right, Enkhtuyaa, you destroy them for it."

Lan Fan tightened her metal fingers on Suyin's wrist, and slipped into northwestern. "How do you know my name, Suyin?"

Suyin smiled. "Isn't it obvious? Grandfather told me years ago."

 _Fuu_. It hit her like a punch to the throat. Lan Fan let go, wheezing a little, but Suyin held on. She reached out with her free hand, brushed her thumb over Lan Fan's cheek. "After all," she said, "those of blood should know each other. Don't you think?"

Lan Fan wrenched away. "I'm not of your blood."

"All the plainriders are sisters under the skin," said Suyin in a humming voice. Then she stepped back, offered a Saatii salute. "I'll see you later this afternoon for dinner,  _cousin_."

She was gone before Lan Fan could take a full breath. The air tasted like poison, and the ground felt slippery under her feet.

She stepped into the water, and let the current wash her clean.

* * *

 

Lan Fan glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the library, but nobody was paying attention to her. The Imperial Library was, possibly, the only place in the entirety of the palace that she never, ever received a second glance, simply because the people who came here were either too old to care or too tired to notice her presence. So there was no one who raised an eyebrow when she made straight for the books on human sexuality, and no one to smack  _The Great Mirror of Male Love_ out of her hand when she opened it.

It was called  _tong xing lian_ , what Mingli and Xinzhe were. It was possible that one of them was  _shuang xing lian_ , bisexual, but other than a rough definition— _attracted to both sexes—_ there wasn't much for her to go on. She'd heard the term tong xing lian before, though, in the women's baths at the Yao house. People had whispered that Master Ling's uncle had been a homosexual, and that was why he wasn't allowed to come out to the imperial city any longer. Of course, just as many peope had whispered that it was because he'd slept with the sister of the Tea Leaf Emperor and managed to get her with child, so no one could quite know for sure.

She could remember clubs that she and her grandfather had stayed in, in their attempts to lay low and stay out of sight of the homunculi, that had catered to the tong xing lian. In Amestris, unlike Xing, it was not illegal for a man to love another man, or a woman to love a woman. It was frowned upon, and thought to be morally degraded, but one did not risk the danger of execution. One of the innkeepers who had treated them with true kindness had been a woman with a…she thought the word was  _partner_ , instead of  _wife_ , but the lady might as well have been both. They were not legally recognized, but the innkeeper had informed her that in case she died, her partner was to have full legal control of the inn, and all of the innkeeper's inheritance.

It had been as if she'd been splashed in the face with cold water, because she'd just never  _thought_ about it. The tong xing lian weren't…well, it wasn't that they weren't natural, because according to  _The Great Mirror of Male Love_  there was a great deal of work in science that indicated that it was not uncommon, no matter the species. But in Xing, it simply didn't fit. Why would anyone decide to become tong xing lian when they knew that the  _Tracts of Wu Xia_ demanded procreation and fidelity?

She wished she could ask Mingli, because Mingli had proved himself quite adept at explaining things she didn't understand. But that would mean confessing that she'd seen Mingli and Xinzhe, and that was completely out of the question. She had to settle for books, this time.

Lan Fan glanced over her shoulder again, and then drew out two more books— _Women Who Love Women_ and  _The Science of Gender_ —and then tucked them under her arm before heading for a relatively more innocuous part of the library.

The history section always had a handful of students studying for exams in it, no matter what time of year it was. There were always going to be tests for governmental positions, despite the season. Lan Fan inclined her head to one of them—she recognized him from previous meetings she'd had with Mingli, here in the library—and then stopped by the section on Song-guo, her skin prickling. Despite everything, she had never actually looked into the Nohin War—not as an event, not as history, and definitely not as something that gave her nightmares. She fingered the pages of  _Women Who Love Women_ , and then pulled one of the volumes free. It was a dissertation, published four years after the rebellion by a Sun-land Nohinra scholar. There was a stamp on the upper right hand corner—the imperial seal of the Tea Leaf Emperor. The seal of the Emperor's father.

There was a list in the back of the massacred tribes. Lan Fan stowed it under her arm, and left the stacks to check her things out and get back to the room, before she collapsed into a little puddle on the floor.

 _I'm not that girl anymore_ , she thought, fiercely scrubbing at her eyes, mussing the makeup that Niu Lu had forced her into that morning.  _I'm not helpless anymore. Ghosts can't hurt me. They never could._

"Well, this is a surprise."

Lan Fan turned, and nearly dropped her stack of books. She'd seen the Emperor just that morning, on horseback as the sun came up, and he'd not once mentioned his plans for the day. If she'd known, after the discussion she'd had with Suyin, she would have waited until midnight to get her stupid books. She felt her face heat a bit, and bowed her head to hide behind her hair. "Imperial Majesty," she said, and she realized that everyone in the library was looking at her, because of every single person in the library, he had sought  _her_ out.

"Lady Ma," he said. There was a court smile playing around his lips. "I thought you seemed preoccupied this morning. Is there something on your mind?"

"Nothing in particular, Imperial Majesty." Her book on homosexuality was tucked in between the Nohinra history and the records of the Sun's Cleansing. She wasn't sure she'd be able to handle Master Ling asking her about it in front of Shen Liu without murder. "I've been meaning to spend more time in the library, but I haven't had time until now."

"Even with the Gathering on?"

"There are very few, majesty, who want to speak to a person like me. Even at the Gathering."

"In a court like this one? Unlikely. Everyone here quite enjoys talking to you, Lady Ma. Or I do, at least." He turned to Shen Liu, and to her horror she realized that he had  _that look_  on his face, the one that said he was going to play merry hell with the world because there was no other way he could vent his temper. "What do you think, Minister? Lady Ma is a superb conversationalist, isn't she?"

Shen Liu was actually speaking through his teeth. She'd never actually seen anyone do that before. "Yes, majesty."

"And a thoughtful speaker." Master Ling glanced back at her, his eyes crackling. "Actually, it's quite convenient that I ran into you here, Lady, because I had something I wanted to ask you. It would be a tremendous favor, I'm afraid."

"I am willing to do anything for your majesty," said Lan Fan, and wondered if Shen Liu would really kill her this time.

"Well then." His eyes twinkled. "In that case, would you accompany me to my next meeting? It will be interesting for you, I think. You said before you would like a better understanding of how imperial politics work, and besides: I desire your opinion on Song politics in regards to Ma lands."

Lan Fan blanched. Shen Liu purpled. " _Majesty_ ," he said, but Ling ignored him.

"Well, lady?" he said. "There's not much time, I'm afraid. I have to get my paperwork and then go straight to the meeting."

She licked her lips, and wondered why it felt like the world had just tilted off its axis. Master Ling was looking at her very hard, and there it was again, that sense that something had changed, or that some shield had lifted. She didn't know what had sparked it—she had a feeling this was one of his plots to get her closer to the Feng, and thus closer to figuring out what the hell kind of quagmire they had wandered into—but there was something else there, too, and it made her shiver. Lan Fan drew a deep breath, let it out, and then bowed her head again. "This—I—would be honored, majesty."

"Good," said Master Ling. He watched her for another long, breathless moment. Then, casually, as though he had always planned on doing it, he offered his arm to her.

Around them, the world came to a standstill. Lan Fan stared at him. It was one thing, she thought, dizzily, for him to touch her as a bodyguard—to check if she was safe, if she was unharmed, when they were alone, and no one could possibly see—but it was quite another for a young, unattached  _Emperor_  to offer his arm to a woman who had barely snagged the title of  _Lady_ by the skin of her teeth.

It meant choice. It meant establishment. It meant that she—Feiyan Ma, Lan Fan Huo, either, or, both, neither—were favored enough to be offered the imperial touch. It meant she was about to lay claim to Ling Yao in more ways than she could ever follow through on.

It felt like all the blood had left her body, like she'd gone cold. She looked at him. Master Ling looked back at her, and there was a challenge in him now, not even a hint of a smile left on his lips. He tilted his head in a question.

She looked at his arm—crimson and gold brocade, embroidery, silk, and bloodlines. She drew a breath, let it out, and set the palm of her hand against the cloth. She could feel the give of flesh through the sleeve, muscle and skin and bone, and for an instant, she thought she could get away with only this light touch. Then the Emperor smiled, a real smile, one she hadn't seen since before they had gone to Amestris, wide and honest. He reached forward, took her wrist in his free hand, and tucked her hand firmly into the crook of his elbow. Lan Fan thought she might burst into flame. Around them, people whispered.

"I think we've startled them," said Master Ling, and he was so close that she could feel his breath against her ear, feel his words on her skin. She felt a bit dizzy. She couldn't help it. Lan Fan inhaled, sharply, and regretted it. He smelled like incense and silk and something deeper, something that she could remember from their time on the road, something like warmth and sweat and male. Her fingers tightened against his elbow, and he covered her hand with his, turning his face away from the crowd so they couldn't read his lips. "An organized retreat?"

 _Idiot_ , she thought, not just at him, but at herself.  _Dreamer. Fool._  "Please," she said, and to her horror, her voice came out as a breath. She could feel the heat of his body, and when they walked his hip bumped against hers, but that wasn't what was making her woozy. She could feel his  _qi_ , sharp and clear, and if she closed her eyes she almost fancied she could see it, a golden framework inside his skin.  _A golden person,_ she thought,  _an immortal_ , but the Philosopher's Stone they had brought back from Amestris was locked away somewhere safe. Besides, she knew her master. He might have sought power, wealth, happiness, but he wouldn't want an immortal life.

 _Think._  She took a breath. They were heading for the doors, and she had to have her game face on for the Song-guo politicos.  _Think. Think about the job. Not about him. Not about you. Think about the job._

All of a sudden, though, the job didn't seem to matter so much anymore.

* * *

 

His mouth tasted as though a pit viper had slithered inside and shed its skin. Shubiao opened his eyes slowly, painstakingly, and then shut them again; they were watering, and sore. Something had crusted his eyelashes together—blood or snot or something else, he didn't have a clue, but it felt like someone had scooped his eyeballs out with a spoon and filled the sockets with sand. His belly ached, a deeper soreness than just a flesh bruise; his clothes were sticky with sweat. He could smell puke and piss somewhere close by.

Shubiao clenched his teeth, and then swore. Something was very wrong with the inside of his mouth. He forced his eyes open, ignoring how it tore at his lashes, and blinked, slowly. Bright lights. Dark shadows. He was tied to a bed, arms and legs spread wide, metal cold and biting against his skin, and there was a woman watching him. Foreign. Red hair, greenish eyes.

The first thing he thought was:  _Hell has finally arisen._ Father Shiloh had told him about the beasts with flames for hair, the women with their seductive eyes and long-nailed fingers that could flay the flesh from bone. Then he looked again, closer this time, and saw the Xing nose, the long eyes, and disgust coiled in his gut. A half-breed. He'd been caught and beaten by a damn half-breed half-white bitch.

She blinked at him. "Hello, there. I suppose you have questions."

He stared as hard as he could at the electric light that was hanging over his cot, and said nothing. The half-breed bitch didn't have an accent. He wondered if her foreign masters had trained it out of her, or if she'd been here so long it simply didn't exist any longer. Both ideas were abhorrent.

"My mistress found you snooping, and she was…understandably put out by it." There was a watery sound, like something dripping, and then a cold, wet cloth brushed against his cheekbone. He jerked, but she was only wiping his eyes clean. Shubiao wanted to scream at her for touching him, wanted to rip all the hair out of her head, but he couldn't move. He went to bite his tongue, and then realized why his whole mouth hurt—there was a gash in his tongue and cankersores in his cheeks. "You tried to kill yourself. Stupid idea, really. It's not as if we don't know who you are and who sent you. The Firebrands are far sloppier than we anticipated, if they're sending people like you to do their dirty work." She hummed, and dropped the cloth back into the bucket. "My mistress has better things to do than to deal with you, so it was my job to heal you. I didn't realize you were epileptic until you started seizing; you nearly bit your tongue in two before I could get a spoon in your mouth."

He said nothing to this. There was no point. The seizures were his curse from God; this bitch had no right to be talking about them. She kept prattling on, unaware. "I healed parts of it as best I could, but I'm no doctor. You'd best be careful with how you speak."

Shubiao hissed, and spat. He missed; at least, he thought he did. The foreign bitch did nothing; she just smiled.

"So friendly." Shubiao glared up at the ceiling again. "Do you know where you are?"

Tied to a bed, he thought. A dark room. No windows. He couldn't lift his head high enough to see a door, either. Electric lighting stung his eyes. Shubiao turned his face away, and pretended there weren't tears of pain dribbling down his temples. The bed was softer than he'd anticipated, considering how he was chained. He took a breath, and a railroad spike drove itself through his ribs.

"You had four broken ribs as well," said the foreign woman, still smiling. "I only healed two. I needed a bargaining chip, after all."

He spat again. This time he hit his mark. He saw it run down her cheek like a tear, but her smile never dropped; it didn't even twitch. She wiped it away with the hem of her pretty sleeve, and then, still smiling, she leaned forward, and set her hand against his ribs. His skin was crawling as she tapped her fingers against his skin—his shirt was torn, and he could feel the heat of her fingers.

"So," she said. "Who's Huli, and where can I find him?"

He said nothing. The woman let out a short sigh, almost like a teacher disappointed in a favorite student. Her eyes were freezing cold.

"You know," she said, "there's a difference between the woman who put you here, and me. See, my mistress would mind if you died, I think. I don't know if the death itself would bother her, or the lack of information, but it would upset her if you died." Her fingers went still. She began to push. Sweat broke out on Shubiao's forehead. "She's a sweet girl. She works hard. She cares about people. The people you were sent to kill, she cares about them." A starburst of pain was unfolding just below his sternum, a white-hot blossom. Shubiao closed his eyes. "The difference between her and me is simple."

Fingers brushed over his cheek. Shubiao opened his eyes. The red-haired woman was standing over him, leaning forward. Her hair brushed against his chest. She smiled.

"I don't care if you die," she said, and then she set two fingers against a point on his neck, and pushed.

He screamed.


	15. Kamaitachi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the back of his head, he could swear he heard Greed's voice say: _Well, fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "Desert Capriccio," from the _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ soundtrack.  
>  "Sorrow in Desert," from the _Hero_ soundtrack.  
>  "Silent Moon," by Jia Peng Fang. 
> 
> Only difference between this chapter and the one on FFnet is that Greed swears a lot less over there than he does here.
> 
> Character List:  
> \--Lan Fan Huo, AKA Feiyan Ma, AKA the REAL Emperor's Shadow, AKA complete and total badass  
> \--Ling Yao, that dorky emperor with an appetite that we love so much  
> \--Huian Yao, Ling's mom and kind of a righteous bitch  
> \--Shen Liu, Minister of the Left, head of the economic and administrative departments of the Imperial Palace, and kind of a suck-up  
> \--Xiao Niao Song and her daughters, Xiao Huan, Xiao Liu, and Xiao Xie (I would apologize for all the X names, but I'm not sorry at all): members of the matriarchal, matrilineal Song clan, and career politicians. Their sense of justice is well renowned in Xing.  
> \--Mingli Chen, Feiyan Ma's tutor in imperial etiquette and (we have learned) Prince Xinzhe Feng's main squeeze  
> \--The Tea Leaf Emperor (mentioned in passing), AKA the Retired Emperor, deceased, Ling's father  
> \--Jian Zhang, the Master of the Imperial Stables

 

**Fourteen: Kamaitachi**

He could remember quite vividly a conversation he had had with Greed, in the six months they had spent with Edward, waiting for the Promised Day. They'd gone pretty much everywhere in Amestris in an attempt to keep Father and the other homunculi off their scent, which meant a lot of walking, a lot of running, and a lot of hiding from soldiers. At the time, they'd been out near West City, on the edge of a patch of marshy ground that smelled of rotting meat. Ed had been asleep, or at least pretending to be, lying on his side and breathing softly. The two chimeras had long since argued out a schedule for shifts which meant that the gorilla was in the trees, and the lion was on the ground, both of them listening to the scrub brush around them.

Greed had been flat out on his back, staring at the stars. Homunculi didn't sleep—at least, they didn't sleep like humans did. Since Greed was sharing Ling's body, which was, at its core, still human (or at least humanish) he needed more rest than Gluttony or Pride ever would, but it didn't mean he actually  _slept_. After all, if Greed fell into unconsciousness, it meant Ling could take control, and Greed was—well, too greedy to let that happen. So instead he and the homunculus both faded into a strange, simultaneous state of half-awake, half-dreaming, where thoughts and ideas crossed Greed's brain, and Ling struggled to catch up.

 _Princeling._  Inside the cacophony of the Philosopher's Stone, Ling had grimaced. There was a difference between  _Prince Ling_ and  _princeling_  that Greed knew as well as Ling did, and he was still convinced that the homunculus had done it in some sort of bizarre overture of friendship.  _Look, I gave you a nickname, humans do that, right?_ Greed hummed deep in the back of his throat, and inside the Stone, the flickering mask-like face of the homunculus's soul grinned.  _Oops. Sorry, princey-boy._

 _Princeling is fine_ , Ling had said, because anything was better than princey-boy.

 _Fuck that._  Greed turned his head.  _I call you what I want._

_As you say._

In the real world, Greed huffed, and grinned.  _Little shit. I wanted to ask you something._

 _It's rare that you_ ask  _to ask anything._

 _Not asking._ Greed hummed again.  _Figured I might as well deliver you from your misery._

Ling spread his arms amidst the bedlam of souls.  _As you see, you have my full and undivided attention_.

 _Shut the fuck up, prick._  Inside the Stone, Greed bared his teeth. Outside, he did that weird dog-like shaking that meant his whole body rippled on the earth. Ling had memorized the movement of the muscles, pressing them deep into his own brain, because if and when Greed was ever shoved into the back of his head, he wanted to be able to do it. It was just the right combination of condescending and animalistic that made certain types of people  _very_ nervous.  _What's Xing like?_

_Big. Lots of territory. Lots of political power. It's the center of the world for a reason. The Emperor—_

Greed waved that aside.  _No fucking shit. You've told me that before._  He paused, and there was a flicker of something in the mask's eyes, in the way the mouth twisted, that in a human would have meant  _hesitation_.  _I know what Xing_ is.  _I want to know what it's_ like.

Ling blinked.  _Why?_

 _Because it's going to be mine. And…._  Greed growled.  _This incarnation of Greed has never left Amestris._

Ling hadn't been able to help it. He grinned.  _Getting a little travel-bug, homunculus?_

 _The whole world is mine, and yet I don't know the landscape of most of it,_  said Greed, and there was a scowl on his soul and on his mouth, then.  _That needs to change._

Ling crossed his legs, and focused his eyes on something beyond Greed, beyond the souls and the Stone. He licked his lips—unnecessary in this realm, but a habit that refused to die—and said,  _Ah._

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

_Nothing,_ Ling said.  _An acknowledgment. I have to think. Give me a moment._

_You have to have a moment to think about your own damn country?_

_What would you say if someone asked you to describe the whole of Amestris?_  Ling snapped. Greed smirked.

_That's easy. Amestris is nothing but a big old crock of bullshit._

In spite of himself, Ling snorted. Then he settled, and closed his eyes.

 _Xing encompasses every sort of terrain on the planet,_  he said.  _In the north we border Drachma, and the deep snows of Brigg's have nothing on the drifts of our northern borders. In the west, it's all desert, like Ishval, but deeper, great rolling dunes that eventually fade into scrubland and flat plains where you can see for miles. The nomadic people live in the intersection between the snows and the desert, breeding horses that have been the envy of the empire for centuries. The south is humid, heavily forested; the east, temperate, with long sloping hills that transform into tremendous mountains. It's there that our most sacred temples are hidden, in caves and secret caverns on mountaintops, where stalagmites and stalactites frame the resting places of gods._

Greed said nothing.

 _When I was eleven years old, I was sent along with five of my half-brothers to present ourselves to the gods._ He offered Greed an image of the imperial caravan, Lan Fan in her guardian black keeping pace alongside the palanquin, Fuu on the other side. He felt a prickle of interest from Greed, so he moved on quickly, sketching out the gorgeous silks and the wide rice fields of the east, the smell of the horses and of human sweat mixing with the earth.  _We were accompanied to the base of the greatest mountain, the one they call Chi Guo Tianwang_. _He's one of the Heavenly Kings, the ruler of the East, and he resides—or so they say—at the top of Longjian Shan. Chi Guo Tianwang is the guardian of all imperial sons, and so before we get our first tattoo, we have to visit the mountaintop and make an offering to Chi Guo Tianwang to ensure his approval._

_What does this have to do with Xing?_

_You wanted to know what Xing was like. I'm telling you._ Ling drew a breath, held, and released. He and Lan Fan had received their family tattoos at the same time—Lan Fan, a  _yin_ symbol in the hollow of her hip; Ling, the number twelve at the base of his spine. He could still remember the prick of the needles, and Lan Fan's expression when the artist wiped away excess ink, blood, and the clear fluid that the the artist had called  _skin weeping_. That one had been cleansed from his skin the night before he'd been consecrated as Emperor.  _It took three days to get to the top of the mountain. We were children, and even with our bodyguards setting a good pace, we couldn't manage as much in a day as a full-grown man could. The air is so thin at the top of Longjian Shan that it feels as though you're breathing through a hole in an eggshell; trees curve and twist like hair, all their leaves thin as needles. The cave...it's as big as a throne room, as_ the  _throne room, and the candles are all made of red wax. The monks there burn sandalwood and clove, and when you go inside, you can almost see the scent of it in the air. The smoke makes your eyes sting, and your nose crack and bleed if you stay inside. The king's idol is made of gold. I'm the twelfth prince, so by right, I went into the cavern second, and made my offering._

Ling paused. Greed tilted his head.  _What was your offering?_

 _My first training sword. Blood from my wrist. A lock of hair._ Ling tugged on his bangs, awkwardly. _My umbilical cord._

_That's nasty._

_It's tradition._

_Humans are fucking disgusting, then_ , said Greed.

 _Someone tried to kill me in that cave_. Ling shifted, drawing one knee up against his chest, keeping the other folded beneath him.  _The thirteenth son. Two months younger than me. He came in and tried to cut my throat. His own offering to Chi Guo Tianwang. Lan Fan threw herself at him, and he stabbed her in the gut._

For once, Greed didn't quite seem to know what to say. Ling leaned his head back to look at the skull-like mask of Greed's soul.  _That_ , he said,  _is Xing. Beauty, tradition, and death. The gods walk among us and we know it. That is my nation, Greed. Does it suit you ?_

Greed stayed quiet for a long time. Then he said:  _You talk about her a lot._

_What?_

_Your girl. What's her name? Lan Fan._

Ling bit his cheek.  _She's been my bodyguard since we were children. It's natural._

_Normal, then, in Xing, for hot girls to be bodyguards?_

His temper sparked.  _Don't talk about her like that._

 _Hey, I'm the one living in your head, princeling. I know what she looks like, and_ exactly  _what you_ think _she looks like._ Ling opened his mouth, but Greed talked over him.  _If you had to choose,_  said Greed,  _between Lan Fan the warrior and Lan Fan the girl, which would you pick?_

_What?_

_See, me? I'd pick both. You can have the warrior and the woman without even thinking about it. But if something makes you choose—if something happens where you have to decide between the two—which are you gonna go with?_

Ling snarled.  _What the hell kind of question is that?_

_A real one. One you need an answer for. If you were telling the truth about this, about our bargain, then I need to know you're not going to try and give everything up for some hot piece of ass, little prince._

Ling opened his mouth.

 _Don't gimme an answer unless you're telling the truth, brat._  Greed sounded almost…affectionate. It was unnerving.  _I mean it. Make a damn decision, and then don't turn your back on it. Because neither of us have the time for you to regret it._

It had been good advice. He still didn't have an answer for it.

It had been Mei's idea for him to court Feiyan Ma. To be honest, Ling had thought of it long before that meeting, in a dark, jealous, greedy part of him that he refused to speak aloud, but Mei had been the one to suggest it. Then, it had seemed to be the only choice. Now that it had been implemented—now that the whole court was buzzing about early morning rides, and long looks, and, as of now, the royal touch—he wondered if it had been the right one.

The meeting with the Song was in the Gathering Hall. Since he hadn't requested a closed assembly, the whole room was filled. Extra pillows had been brought in from side-rooms, and every one was filled. As they entered—the guards first, filing along the walls; then Shan Yao and the Ministers of the Left and Right; and then Ling, with Lan Fan digging her nails into his sleeve, her face white with panic—the room went quiet. She held on tighter, and he realized her fingers were shaking as together they made their way through the room towards the remaining pillows. On the dais, his mother looked ready to spit poison.

"That's right," he said, and didn't bother to keep his voice low. Lan Fan looked at him, a deer in the headlights.  _Come on. You're braver than this, Feiyan Ma._ "How do you find your new rooms, Lady Ma? I apologize for the sudden transfer from the Bamboo Gardens, but I heard from certain sources that it was a…necessary removal."

Huian Yao colored pink, and flicked open her fan.

"Huh?" Lan Fan blinked at him, then looked at the Empress Dowager. He felt her knees nearly give out, and without thinking about it, he squeezed her hand. Feiyan Ma snapped a look at him that was pure Lan Fan Huo, equal parts consternation, concern, and frustration. "It wasn't a problem, majesty. It was…unexpected, of course, but then again, I did not expect so grand a room in the first place. To be moved was…reassuring, in a way. Though of course, I am very grateful that I was placed there in the first place."

"Of course," he said, and paused by one of the empty pillows meant for the major speakers. He glanced back at Shan. "Commander, if you would attend to the Lady Ma, please."

"Immediately, Majesty," Shan said, and came forward to take Lan Fan's hand. It felt as though her palm had left a burning print on his arm as she bowed, and began to turn away. Ling glanced up at his mother—her lips were pursed in a way that promised immediate and painful retribution—and then he caught Lan Fan's flesh hand. He could feel her calluses, the wiry strength in her fingers, the scar on her palm from where she'd caught a blade barehanded. She looked at him, and there was a very pretty flush rising in her cheeks, a mix of shock and apprehension. He thought about touching his lips to her fingertips, but decided that would be too much this early in the game. Instead, he leaned forward, and set his mouth to her ear.

"I look forward to tomorrow morning, my lady."

Pink flushed to red. Lan Fan looked down at the floor, her shoulders hitching until they nearly brushed her ears. She shifted from one foot to the other, licking her lips. Then she glanced up at him through her eyelashes, and by all the spirits of the earth, he could have sworn she was  _flirting_. Knowing Lan Fan, she was just too nervous to look at him any other way.

It still felt as though someone had shot electricity down his spine.

"So do I, Your Majesty."

Her fingers slipped out of his. Lan Fan bowed, half-court, half-nomad, deep at the waist with one arm across her chest. Then she took Shan's hand, and settled next to him on the free crimson pillow. No one was bothering to hide their whispering anymore; out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his many Yao cousins, Honghui the alkahestrist, go ghost white and clutch at his companion. He wondered if Honghui was one of the Yao cousins that Shan had told him about, the ones that been harassing Lan Fan at that first party, the ones that Shan had caught shoving notes with filthy epithets under the door to the Bamboo Garden rooms. Something that felt much like Greed curdled in his gut. Then he glanced back at Lan Fan. She had followed his gaze over to Honghui Yao, and her mouth had gone thin, her eyes narrow, her lips parting to show her teeth. Everything about her was predatory. She settled on the pillow, tucking her hands into her lap, and looked straight ahead, neither left nor right. The pile of books she'd been carrying since the library was settled neatly in front of her. Out of the corner of of his eye, he saw the matriarch of the Song family, Xiao Niao, giving Lan Fan a careful once-over.

Huian's eyes were acid as he mounted the dais. "My son."

He inclined his head. "Mother."

Ling settled in his chair, and then glanced back at Xiao Niao Song. She was in her mid-forties, grey just beginning to streak her long hair; her mouth was wide, and a large birthmark spattered her right cheek, but she was still handsome in a way that turned heads. Xiao Niao had been the matriarch of the Song family since before Ling had been born, and he had the feeling that every time she looked at him, she saw the three-year-old who had plastered his face with peach juice and then thrown the pits over the balcony railing into her magnificent updo.

He tucked his hands back up into his sleeves. There were seven Song in the room, beside Xiao Niao: Xiao Niao's three daughters and her four nieces, all of them with the face-and-neck tattoos of a full woman. Xiao Niao herself had the most impressive tattoos, vines creeping up from within her collar to bloom with vivid color across her cheeks and jaw. Her eyelids had been painted to match.

"My lady Song," he said, and dipped his head.

Xiao Niao Song stood, and then dropped into a deep curtsy. "Ten thousand years to you, Imperial Majesty. Milady Empress," she added, inclining her head to Huian Yao. "Life, health, and strength to you."

His mother smiled behind her fan.

"May this one introduce her daughters, Xiao Huan—" the oldest, maybe twenty, with long black hair in alkahestry braids and lilacs crawling across the bridge of her nose, stood and bowed, "—Xiao Liu—" the middle child, strong-faced and scowling, thorns bare on her throat, curtsied "—and Xiao Xie—" the youngest, with silky hair and stunning green eyes framed in the freshly-inked vines that covered her face, glanced up at him through her lashes, turned pink, and curtsied more deeply than either of her sisters. Xiao Niao waited until Ling gestured for them to sit, and then turned to her left. "And these are this one's nieces."

"Greetings," said Ling. "My thanks to you for journeying all this way."

"This one is honored that Your Majesty considers such trifles."

He kept his eyes studiously away from Lan Fan and Shan. Absently, he wondered why Suyin Yao wasn't here to speak the case for the Ma—then remembered that as a new Yao, she no longer had the right to speak for another family's concerns. He flicked a hand at Xiao Niao.

"You may begin, Lady Song."

Half an hour passed. Then an hour. Xiao Niao Song went over the economic production rates of Song-guo, catalogued the amount of cloth and tapestries they had been able to complete since the last Gathering ("approximately a fourteen percent raise in production rates from our previous estimations, majesty"), suggested amendments to the previous capitol-Song trade agreement. Ling stayed mostly quiet, letting Shen Liu have his say. If he interrupted the Minister of the Left now, in his element, it might lead to more chaos than bringing an unattached Ma into a previously nomad-less discussion ever would.

Xiao Xie was watching him. No, he corrected himself; she was flicking her eyes from Lan Fan to Ling and back, a surprisingly calculating twist to her mouth for one who couldn't be more than fourteen. When she turned her head to stare at Lan Fan again, he could see a small pink blossom blooming on the delicate skin behind her ear. Her sister pinched her wrist, and Xiao Xie looked down at the floor again.

"I distinctly remember you saying that you would be riding alone, my dear." Huian pitched her voice low, almost inaudible over the chatter of Shen Liu and Xiao Niao Song. She leaned closer to him, just enough so he could smell her perfume. She was wearing orange blossom, today. Her mood wasn't good, then. "That it was to be….soothing. And now it seems that you're meeting with the Ma girl, instead."

"You mean Lady Feiyan?" He kept his smile carefully mocking. "If I were to say she's soothing, would you hit me?"

"This one would never dare to raise a hand to her emperor, chosen as he was by all the gods of the ages," said Huian, but her mouth tightened. She was going to kill him. He was certain of it.

"Do you disapprove?" Ling asked, watching as Shen Liu waxed poetical about some aspect of the trade agreement that meant capitol profit at Song expense. Xiao Niao Song looked about ready to punch the man in the face.

Huian Yao fluttered her fan in front of her mouth, and then snapped it closed. She flicked it open again. "There are many women who are worthy of entering the Lotus Hall, majesty."

 _But not Feiyan Ma._ Unspoken but said nonetheless. Ling eyed Huian for a moment, and then turned back to Xiao Niao. Lan Fan hadn't moved. He knew better than anybody how long she could sit like that, with her knees folded up, sitting on her feet, making herself as still as possible so as to not be noticeable. It didn't quite work when everyone had already noticed her.

"Minister Liu." At his words, Shen Liu abruptly closed his mouth. "Bring us the agreement struck between the Crane Flight Emperor and the Song governors of that reign. Lady Song, in plain terms, you are to be congratulated for your fine work as first governor. Would you not agree, Minister?"

Shen Liu smiled, and inclined his head to the Song matriarch. "It is an admirable thing, Imperial Highness. The Lady Song and her brethren have worked miracles."

"It is clear to us that this fine-tuning of trade agreements will not be resolved within one meeting," said Ling. "We propose that this discussion be shelved until a later time. Have you anything else you wish to bring to our attention, Lady Song?"

"There is one favor this one must beg of you, Imperial Majesty," said Xiao Niao, and Ling nodded.

"Proceed."

"This one begs you, majesty, to enforce the border laws between family lands." She drew a breath, and around her, her daughters stilled. Whispers began to break out in the crowd. "The nomads are becoming a problem, majesty. The Nohin War has fired them up, and even years later, they have not settled. They raid our farms and our villages, take our horses and our wares; even our children are not safe from them. For every tribe we trade with, for every tribe we make treaties with, there are three more who aim to destroy us. The Minari have raped our sons and daughters, stolen our people, and set our lands to the torch."

The murmuring grew to a greater pitch, and in the crowd, someone made a soft whoop of agreement.

"And we have not been the only ones to suffer," said Xiao Niao, her voice settling. "The Liang, the Lu, the Wang—all of us have been attacked by tribes that live inside our sacred empire. So please tell this one, Your Majesty, how this one is to make peace with the nomads when the nomads will not make peace with us."

He heard rather than saw the room turn to look at Feiyan Ma. Lan Fan hadn't lifted her eyes from the steps to the dais, her fingers settled and still on top of her stack of books. Ling focused on Xiao Niao Song. Her face was smooth and set, her eyes blazing. The nomad question had been put to every emperor since his great-grandfather, with little success in finding any sort of answer. The nomads knew the steppes better than any Xing man living; it was suicide to send in more than a small military force when the terrain, the weather, even the mountains themselves seemed to be against them. Xiao Niao knew that as well as anyone. If this was a test, he thought, there was no way he could answer it without failing in some way.

"We have heard from many living along the border that the circumstances there have been…worsening of late." He leaned forward in his chair. "What is it you propose we do, Lady Song? Peacemakers and generals alike have been sent to the steppes, and destroyed. The nomads—all of the many tribes that call the desert borders their home—have proven time and time again to be warriors worthy of any nation they choose to serve. Their lawlessness is an affront to our empire, but greater leaders than I have attempted to subdue them, and failed."

"There is no leader greater than your majesty," said Xiao Niao, and bowed. Ling showed her a dazzling  _you're going to make me blush_  smile, and Xiao Xie looked down, her cheeks pinking up under the tattoos.

"Please, Lady. One would think you mean it. I don't think any of you have forgotten the incident with the peaches."

For the first time since she'd entered the room, Xiao Niao smiled. The court tittered. Huian Yao laughed politely, but he could tell from the expression on her face that she had no idea what he was talking about.

"We don't pretend to be knowledgeable in all realms of state, Lady Song. If it is your nation that is threatened, we entreat you—what would you have us do to stop it?"

For the first time since she'd sat down, Lan Fan shifted, just a bit.

"There are any number of tribes that threaten Your Majesty's borders." Xiao Niao scraped a fingernail over the tattoo on her cheek, thoughtful. "If this one may be so bold, majesty, then it would be this one's recommendation to strengthen the border guard. As Your Imperial Majesty has said, there have been attempts throughout the ages to pacify these border clingers. They bring this great nation nothing that it cannot manufacture for itself, and to accept such people into our population would be a violation of the deepest sort." She drew a breath. "This one feels that the only solution now would be to block them out entirely, Imperial Majesty. The cycle of killing must be ended before it has a chance to begin again."

A flurry of whispers broke out amidst the crowd. Each of the Song—from the seven women in the front, to the dozens in the background, men and women alike—were nodding quietly to themselves. Shen Liu looked slightly put out that his discussion on economics had taken such a militaristic turn, but at the same time, there was a gleam of triumph in his face that he couldn't quite conceal. Ling held his tongue for a minute or two, and then raised his hand; the muttering quieted.

"Lady Feiyan," said Ling, and Lan Fan lifted her gaze. "You are of the Ma. You know more of the nomads on Song-guo's borders than many in this room do. What is your opinion?"

On the first step up to the dais, Shen Liu stiffened, and turned. "Imperial Majesty," he said, "this one begs your pardon, but it is not advisable to take the opinon of such an untested figure seriously, especially in a matter of this magnitude. It is the opinion of this one that—"

"Your thoughts are acknowledged, Minister. We will consider them the same we would with any other." He lifted his voice a little. "Besides, in a debate such as this, it is fair and legal to have the full opinion of both possible parties, is it not?" Ling cocked his head. "Lady Song, do you have any objection to the Lady Ma speaking?"

"Not in the slightest." Xiao Niao bowed again, and turned a little, so that her body was facing Lan Fan. "In fact, this one would have requested it herself, if Your Imperial Highness had not asked in the first place."

"You see, Liu? Perfectly acceptable." He leaned back in his chair again. "Lady Ma: are you fully aware of the circumstances surrounding Lady Song's requests?"

Lan Fan licked her lips. "For the most part, Imperial Majesty, yes. Some of the more nuanced details escape me." She drew a breath. "Begging Your Majesty's pardon, but it is…it's not possible for me to speak for all the tribes."

Ling did not answer. Lady Song cleared her throat. "You speak for the Ma, then, Lady?"

"I speak for myself, Lady Song, and no other." She paused. "But I have…heard rumors. And I have spoken with other tribes on a matter similar to this one. If that would be of any assistance to you, or to you, Imperial Highness, I will gladly tell you what I know."

For a second, Ling nearly swore. Then he remembered: in their journeys to and from Amestris, with and without the Stone, they had come across any number of nomads. They had even joined a caravan, he and Fuu and Lan Fan, and borrowed their camels to cross the desert. There had been a number of times he'd woken in the tent he'd shared with Fuu and Lan Fan and found her gone, sitting by the fire, listening to the men talk, her arms wrapped around her knees. Why she'd found them so fascinating, he had had no idea. When he'd asked, it had been the only question she had begged off answering.

 _She only lies with truth_ , he thought, and hid a smile behind a cough.

"Proceed," he said after a moment.

Lan Fan closed her fingers over her knees. "The Ma are unique amongst the nomads in that we have sworn ourselves to the empire. But we have never been fools enough to call the steppes ours alone. We share them with any number of bands. One of our greatest watering holes is peopled by the Xiongnu, who have never had any sort of imperial feeling. We have contracts with the horse breeders, the Rong people, and we trade our own foals for new stock every seven years."

Xiao Niao waved her hand. "That's all well and good, Lady, but what does this have to do with our borders?"

"To them, there  _are_ no borders," she said. "At least, not the ones that are typical here in the empire. Almost all of the tribes move constantly. We share rivers, we clash over them, but I can't think of a single tribe that has drawn a line in the sand and said,  _There, that's ours_. The land belongs to no one but the spirits of the earth and sky. They aren't breaking any laws that they know because the laws of Song-guo and Liang-guo and all of the others  _aren't_  laws, not to them." She drew a breath. "This doesn't…apply so much anymore. Many of the tribes know where they can raid, if they need to. Most only raid if they have to, Lady Song. The Minari…" Lan Fan hesitated, and then flexed her metal arm. "I know myself how cruel the Minari can be. I don't dare speak for them. Their atrocities are not shared by other tribes."

"If what you say is true, Lady Ma," said Shen Liu, "then there's no reason for these 'many tribes' to be attacking Xing territory. You make it sound as though all nomad peoples aside from the Minari are misunderstood puppies."

He could see her grinding her teeth, the clench to her jaw. "You misinterpret me, Minister. I said that most tribes only raid if they  _have_ to. In the past decade, there have been famines and plagues from the west. Lady Song, you mentioned a drought earlier; it affected the tribes, too. Many people have died, all across the borderlands. There was a disease amongst the Rong, and thousands of their horses miscarried or died. The past few years have also had harsh winters, killing off the animals that we've hunted for generations. The tribes aren't dying out, but they have nowhere else to turn. Believe me when I say that the Xiongnu wouldn't be raiding unless they had very good reason."

Lady Song's forehead wrinkled. "We have offered any number of trade agreements. If they were in so much trouble, then—"

"Forgive me, Lady, but many of the tribes—" Lan Fan gave Minister Liu a look like the one she'd sent towards Honghui, teeth bared, jaw clenched—"no longer have trust in the empire, and haven't for over ten years."

There was a great stir at that. Ling sat up straighter in his chair. "Explain," he said, "now," and his voice was sharp, sharper than he'd meant it to be. Lan Fan turned towards him, and then just as quickly away.

"The atrocities committed upon the Nohin people by their own have violated any trust that nomads of any sort previously had with the empire." Feiyan Ma folded her hands carefully in her lap again. "It's impossible for anyone, let alone someone like me, to say what could possibly be done to change the minds of those who watched a massacre perpetuated on those they traded and clashed with with the tacit approval of imperial powers."

Shen Liu nearly spit blood. "Are you accusing members of this government of orchestrating a—a genocide of nomadic peoples?"

"No," she said. "What I am attempting to say is that there was an explicitly devised exercise in ethnic extermination perpetrated on the Nohin—the nomadic Nohin, the People of the Rising Sun—by the Nohin—the sedentary Nohin, the People of the Setting Sun—which has since been erroneously defined as an act of war. This act was equally explicitly supported by certain members of the imperial government."

The room exploded.

"In light of this—" she had to shout to be heard over the clamor of the crowd. "In light of this—in light of what the people of the steppes have seen, which of them would be willing to join the empire? Which of them would be able to trust a nation which had actively endorsed a slaughter of those who had lived and fought and loved and died alongside them? Who among you would be able to do such a thing?"

Huian Yao shot to her feet. She was breathing hard; her chest rising and falling, a flood of pink in her cheeks. Her hands were clenched. "Insolent little bitch," she crooned. "Ridiculous half-breed whore. Get out of this room."

Lan Fan looked at him. Then she bowed, sharply, collected her books, and bolted. Ling bit the inside of his cheek.

"Mother," he said, and Huian turned. "That was rude of you, don't you think?"

She closed her fan and took two steps forward, so she was standing right beside him. Her smile was thin and blade-sharp. "My dearest boy," she said, "if you don't exile that filthy little slut for her lies by the end of the week, then rest assured, I will do it myself."

Then she swept away.

In the back of his head, he could swear he heard Greed's voice say:  _Well, fuck._

* * *

Lan Fan settled with her back to a pillar in the Garden of Endless Streams, and breathed. It had been a very long time since she had hyperventilated, but that moment, when all of the court had their eyes on her, some greedy, some grasping, some furious, some curious, she had nearly lost control of herself. It had come close enough that she'd torn the pillow underneath her knees, digging her metal fingers so deep into the fabric that she'd left five perfect holes behind.

The new room that she and Niu Lu had been shunted to was in a completely different ward of the palace. The Eastern Ward of the Imperial City was for visiting dignitaries, embassies, lordlings, and ladies; the Western Ward, the Ward of the White Tiger, was where the staff lived and worked. (In fact, she shared a wall with one of the permanently staffed Orchid Women from Xinjing's floating world, who, from the sound of it, was just dying to get her hands on one of the imperial cousins.) In a way it was much more convenient—after all, she was much closer to the stables, now—but she wasn't blind to the slight. By all rights when she'd been moved she should have just gone to stay with Suyin and the Commander, but she'd been thinking too hard about the literary cypher to care.

Now that she'd gone and made a fool of herself in front of the whole court, her rooms were a blessing. After all, nobody would come and look for her in the kitchen gardens. Since she'd changed into loose trousers and a long tangzhuang, her hair tucked up under a soft black cap, it was doubtful anyone would recognize her, even if they  _did_ find her. She'd brought some of the books she'd taken from the library in an effort to distract herself, but the look on the face of the Empress Dowager kept shoving the love poems out of her head.

Why on earth, she thought, had the Emperor decided that pulling her into politics was a good idea? What had been his plan?  _I'm here to be spying on the Fengs,_  she thought, digging into the earth with her human fingers,  _not be an ambassador for the nomads._ Sure, if she made enough stir at court then nobody would be able to ignore her, but she'd managed to get the attention of the Feng triplets well enough on her own. She hadn't needed—well, what had just happened hadn't been necessary in the slightest.  _It would have been enough to go riding with him every morning_ , she thought, half-furiously.  _That would have been enough of a lure for them. I don't like politics. I don't want anything to_ do  _with politics. Why pull me into that?_ She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.  _What if he's angry with me? He has good reason to be. I was so stupid._

For the first time since Amestris, she was  _furious_  with Ling Yao. For the first time since forever, she didn't feel bad for it.

 _I wouldn't be surprised if people actually tried to murder me now_ , she thought, and something under her solar plexus clenched. Maybe a decent fight would do her some good.

She felt the  _qi_ before she heard the door open. Persimmons and woodsmoke. Mingli Chen. "There you are," he said, as she turned to blink at him. In his gaudy Gathering robes, he looked extraordinarily out of place standing in the cabbage patch. "The whole city has been looking for you. I think Lien Hua is about ready to release hunting hounds."

"I didn't want to be found," she said, in a dull voice. Mingli dropped down next to her, knocking her shoulder with his. "You'll ruin your—"

"They're not mine," he said. "They're my uncle's. He's smoked too much to care what happens to them now." Mingli took off his spectacles, and wiped the lenses clean. "You caused a big stir in there."

Lan Fan stared very hard at the cabbages. Cabbages had good lives, short as they were. Even if they ended up stewed or fried or broiled, they were happy as long as they had sun and dirt and water. Maybe in her next incarnation she would be a cabbage. If she was lucky, she would wind up in a patch of dirt far, far away from here, and die a quick, painless death in some farmer's stewpot.

Mingli hovered in silence for a long time. She'd begun a silent rhapsody to the life of a sweet bean plant (deer and insects and dumplings on the menu) when he cleared his throat. "Did you know any?"

She turned. Mingli was watching the trees, where in the branches, finches lurked. "What?"

"The Nohin." He shoved his glasses up his nose again. "Did you know any of them? Before the Sun's Cleansing?"

 _My father,_ she thought.  _My brother._ "One or two," she said aloud, and closed her eyes. "We would meet them at trading posts, sometimes, along the Song border. Or what the border was then, before the Retired Emperor made the land grant. I was only five; I don't remember their faces."

She remembered Sakari Kazuki, in the guard's tower for espionage, and her belly twisted.  _Yappari, omae no you na onna wa saite da. Women like you are the worst, after all._ For the first time, she wondered if he had been talking about more than her relationship with the Fengs, if he had seen something in her face that he'd recognized. If he'd realized the truth.

 _I am Huo_ , she told herself.  _I am Huo._

Her fingers were tangled in the chain around her neck.

"You all right?" Mingli said, and Lan Fan shook her head, hiding her face in her knees. Her sheaths scraped uncomfortably along the insides of her arms.

"I just told off the Song matriarch," she said into her pants. "I'm not all right at all."

"If it helps, I heard a lot of people agreeing with you. When I left, I mean." She peeked at him through her bangs, and Mingli shrugged. "A lot were disagreeing, but at least you managed to get them talking. Nobody likes to mention the dead. It means they have to remember that eventually, they'll die, too."

She thought of the Tea Leaf Emperor, of her master's father, and the desperation in his eyes when he'd summoned Master Ling to his presence.  _I'll tell you what I told all of your brothers and sisters. You want to rule this nation? Then you will find me immortality, or you'll die trying._

Next to her, she felt Mingli stiffen. She looked up, and followed his gaze down to  _The Great Mirror of Male Love,_  the collection of short stories and love poems, and she bit her tongue. Lan Fan tilted her head at him. "Is something wrong?"

Mingli shook his head, but there were patches of color high in his cheeks. "It's nothing. I didn't know you were reading tong xing lian love poetry."

Lan Fan licked her lips. At the top of the garden wall, there was a flicker of movement, and a stray cat slunk out of the shadows. Tattered ears and gleaming eyes. It had a mouse in its mouth. There were any number of lies she could tell, but then again, Lan Fan had never been good at lying. "I saw you," she blurted, "last night. I wouldn't—I didn't want to pry. I thought this way was better."

Mingli turned bone white, and began to stand, but Lan Fan grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. "Don't, please. I don't—" She groped for words. "I'm not—"

"Did you talk to anyone about this?" Mingli hissed, and his voice was reedy with panic. "Did you ask anyone? Have you told anyone?"

"No!"

"Why wouldn't you?" He ducked his head lower, turning left and right, trying to see if anyone was listening. There was only the cat on the top of the wall. "If you know what I am, why wouldn't you—"

"Because you're my friend, you idiot!" she snapped back, and then she blinked. So did Mingli. Lan Fan reached out with her left hand, her metal hand, and wrapped her fingers around the back of Mingli's neck, shaking him slightly. "You're my friend," she repeated, quieter this time, and made him meet her eyes. "Listen to me. I haven't told anyone. I  _won't_ tell anyone. I just…"

She couldn't figure out what to say. Mingli searched her face, her eyes. Sweat was beading on his upper lip. Then he swore, viciously, under his breath. "How the hell did you see us?"

"I came back from meeting with my cousin to find that you and Xinzhe were gone. One of the servants told me he saw you carrying Xinzhe out. So I followed you." She swallowed. "Nobody else was around. It was just me. I swear."

Mingli still looked about ready to puke. He made the sign against evil on his chest. "Lady of the Heavenly Heights protect us against eavesdroppers. Spirits, Ma."

"I swear to you," she said, "by everything I hold dear, I will  _never_ tell anyone what I saw. I swear it."

Mingli didn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "Have you talked to Xinzhe?"

She shook her head. "I haven't seen him since last night."

"Are you  _going_ to tell him?"

"No. Not unless you want me to."

He closed his eyes, and relaxed, just a little. He knocked his head against the pillar, mouthing something she couldn't catch. Lan Fan dropped her hand back into her lap, and waited. The stray cat had bolted at the first hint of a raised voice.

"If you tell anyone," he said, "they could execute me for sodomy."

"I'm not going to tell anyone," she repeated, softer now.

He made a noise that was a cross of a grunt and a moan and hit his head against the pillar again. "You know who outlawed people like me?" he said. "A Feng. The White Jade Empress. She caught her consort with one of the palace guards, and had them both castrated and slaughtered. Ever since then all of the guards on the Lotus Hall have been eunuchs and all of the tong xing lian who have been caught are executed. I can't not appreciate the irony."

She'd heard many stories about many emperors, but not that particular one. "Why would she do that instead of exile?"

"For the same reason the Nohin killed each other," said Mingli. "Because people who are different end up dead."

Lan Fan pressed her lips tight together, and said nothing. Finally, Mingli turned to look at her. "You know," he said, "if you'd rather not be taught by a sodomite, I can talk to your cousin. Say we argued. She'll find you another tutor."

She knocked her shoulder against his, lightly. Mingli nearly flinched. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it right."

Mingli looked at her. A smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then he stood, brushing the dust and dirt off the back of his robes, and offered her a hand. Lan Fan took it without hesitation, and let him pull her up. "Come on," he said. "Lien Hua wants to congratulate you for putting a bee in Shen Liu's ear."

"If she was so impressed, she can do it herself next time."

Mingli laughed.

* * *

The next morning dawned misty rather than bright. Lan Fan pulled on an extra jacket over her deel, the ruby one with the running horses embroidered on the back, and then let Niu Lu know that she was heading out to meet the Emperor before scrabbling up onto the rooftops. She'd been furious enough for a few minutes the night before (especially when she'd been listening to Lien Hua recap what she'd heard from everyone who knew about the discussion with Xiao Niao Song) that she'd seriously considered not going to meet with the Emperor this morning. Then common sense (and loyalty) made her think again. She'd already told him she'd be there, before the whole debacle. Besides, it would have been terribly insulting for her not to go.

For once, he was waiting for her, leaning against the door of the stable with his horse already tacked and tied to the hitching post. He was wearing all black— the sleeves of his jacket were embroidered with golden hounds—and his hair was braided again. She studied the tie-off until she saw the leather strap, and then silently pronounced herself satisfied. If he was going to keep wearing his hair like Ed Elric, at least he had a band of nail-studded leather woven into it.

Lan Fan bowed without meeting his eyes, crossing her left arm over her chest. "Good morning, majesty."

"Good morning." She passed him, and he swiveled on one foot to follow her. "You look tired."

She shrugged, and went to the dun mare's stall. Changchang was still too unstable to be ridden outside of a paddock without being completely exhausted.

"Did you not sleep?"

Lan Fan shrugged again. Master Ling sucked his teeth, but the corners of his lips were twitching. "Are you horribly angry with me?"

Lan Fan gave the dun mare her bit, and pulled her forward out of the stall. She'd been getting better at riding bareback, now that she'd been working with Changchang for a while. She liked it better than a saddle, anyway.

"Silent treatment, then," said the Emperor jovially, and mounted his horse. It was a new one, a gift from Yuan-guo—a magnificent red stallion that pranced and stamped and made eyes at her mare. Thankfully, the mare—Suyin had said her name was Altantsetseg, or  _golden flower_ ; Lan Fan had shortened it to Altan—just whuffed a bit and stepped away. "I can deal with that. It's not like it hasn't happened before."

Lan Fan wondered what he was remembering. She could only recall three times that she'd actually dared to give her master the so-called "silent treatment," and each time it had involved him nearly getting himself killed. The last one had been on their way back to Xing, after Greed had sacrificed himself. Then again, she'd spent most of that time thinking about her grandfather, so it hadn't been intentional.

Changchang made a squealing noise from the back of the stable, and Lan Fan heaved herself up onto Altan's back. She had to read the book on horse training once she came back; she didn't want to face Jian Zhang having not looked through it at least once. "I would not dare, majesty," she said finally, pulling the mare around. She could see the doppelganger Shadow—she still couldn't remember his name—standing by the gate out into the grounds, watching them. "To do such a thing would be…rude beyond measurement ."

"And she speaks!" Master Ling looked ridiculously pleased with himself. "My lady Ma, I was beginning to wonder if someone had stolen your tongue in the night."

She went to bite her lip, and then stopped herself. She could almost hear Lien Hua whispering in her ear— _why, with that kind of charm, you might steal more than that, imperial majesty_ —and she felt the back of her neck flush red at the thought. Thankfully, the deel covered it up. She coughed rather than respond, and nodded to Jian Zhang as she passed him. He clenched his teeth around his pipe. Lan Fan thought he might have been hiding a smile.

It was too early for more than a few nobles to be awake, but Xinjing City was another matter. There were only a few in the Baihu Ward who recognized the Emperor by sight, and they didn't seem to be out today; there were a number of careful bows from the early-rising merchants, setting up their wares, but none of the pomp and circumstance of an official court outing. She thought the Emperor might be enjoying it a little, judging by the look on his face. He hadn't said a word to her since they'd left the stableyard, for which Lan Fan was grateful. He still looked as though he was on the verge of laughter, though, and, unexpectedly, it was soothing. Exasperating and frustrating, certainly, but soothing. At least he wasn't too furious with her for making a fool of herself in front of the entire court.

She fiddled with her metal index finger, and didn't say a word.

They passed through the Lower Baihumen, and Lan Fan waited until the doppelganger had caught up before urging Altan into a slow trot. Behind her, she heard the Emperor muttering to his horse—or to his Shadow, she wasn't sure—but she couldn't quite make it out over the crunch of hooves on gravel. He caught up to her easily, though, and the red stallion was whipping his head like a fresh-broke colt, prancing neatly.

"I was going to let him run today," said the Emperor. "Would you care to join me, Lady Ma?"

There was a quirk to his mouth that meant mischief. Lan Fan's eyebrows snapped together, and she set her flesh fingers on Altan's withers. Her black mane was bristly against Lan Fan's palm. "A race, you mean?"

He leaned his head back, and for some reason Lan Fan found herself tracing the line of his throat with her eyes. The braid fell back over his shoulder, and when he leaned back, it almost touched the small of his spine. When he looked at her, it was out of the corner of his eye, a crooked smile on his lips. "Maybe. If you like." He tilted his head. "Would you like?"

Lan Fan shrugged, and looked away. She heard him sigh, and then a crunch of gravel, and something nudged her in the leg. Lan Fan looked up with her ears flushing to find the Emperor riding right alongside her, sticking his foot back in the stirrup after knocking his knee against hers.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think it would get that heated. Or for that many people to be there. I know you don't like crowds much."

Crowds meant danger. Crowds meant death. Lan Fan lifted one shoulder to check that the sheath was still taut against the small of her back. This time there was a light touch on her shoulder, a brush of three fingers. She couldn't quite look at him. "Hey," he said. "Talk to me. Please," he added. He hadn't needed to. It hadn't been a command.

Lan Fan cracked her flesh knuckles. "This—I thought you would be furious with me."

The Emperor blinked. He honestly looked puzzled. "Why?"

 _Because I embarrassed you_. "I acted…rashly. And in a way that was…distressing to many. For good reason." She licked her lips. "And afterwards I was angry."

"At yourself?"

"And at you," she said, and then she bit her tongue. All he did was grin, so, feeling very daring, she added, "Mostly at you. I…I apologize, majesty. It was unjust of me."

"I don't know, I'd've been mad at me, too." He tugged on her sleeve. "So. Race?"

Lan Fan kicked Altan in the ribs without answering, and when she heard his answering whoop, she finally let herself smile.

The land outside of the Lower Baihumen was mostly riddled with farms, but there was a broad patch just beyond one of the bigger sets of rice fields that was pure grassland. It was something she remembered out of a half-dream or a fairy story—grass that came up to a horse's belly, rippling like an ocean wave in wake of a soft breeze. In the early misty dawn, it was a dreamscape. She couldn't see more than three feet ahead of Altan's ears, but her  _qi_  sense said nothing was amiss, and besides—she couldn't remember seeing something as gorgeous in a very long time. There was something freeing about it, something exhilarating, and Lan Fan dug her knees into Altan's sides and ignored it when her bun came undone and her hair flared out like a flag behind her.

She could just sense the Emperor circling wide around her. It was easier to hear him; the stallion was eating up ground, churning grass beneath his feet, and even if Altan couldn't quite match up to the sheer speed, it was glorious to watch. Lan Fan pressed her left knee into Altan's side and brought the dun mare around in a wide circle, fisting one hand around a scrap of mane that had been stinging at her skin. She wondered if this was what Peizhi felt on Changchang—like she could think it, and Altan would follow. Like a bird, maybe. Like freedom.

The mist had mostly cleared before Altan finally slowed. The red stallion was a bit more winded than she would have expected of a Yuan-guo horse, and something in her belly tickled like pride when she trotted Altan over to the Emperor and dismounted. "He's a beautiful animal," she said, stroking the stallion's nose while Altan cropped grass. "His stamina needs work."

"Needs work, she says," said the Emperor, who had flopped onto his back in the thigh-high grass. "He's amazing."

"He's very fast, majesty, but he wouldn't do well in a long-distance race." She rubbed the stallion's ear between her finger and thumb. "He tires."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not putting him in a long distance race, then, isn't it?" He cracked his eyes open and peered at her through his lashes. Lan Fan couldn't help it; she smiled. "There you go. I've been waiting for that all morning."

She flushed, and looked back at the horse again. The Shadow was finally catching up to them, his steady jog effortless even through the thick grass. At her feet, the Emperor sat up. "Look," he said. "I wanted to get out far enough to make sure no one was listening before I told you this. I should be able to fix it before it comes to anything, but I thought you should know."

Lan Fan blinked at him, and stepped away from the stallion. "What?"

He licked his lips. She couldn't quite remember the last time he had looked nervous. "My mother—"

She heard the whistle of the arrow the same instant she felt the spike of intent. Lan Fan spun on the balls of her feet, the blade in her elbow loose and at the ready. The arrow fell in two pieces on the ground, willow fletched with eagle feathers. Another hiss, south-south-west, and she spun again. The arrowhead was barbed. Imported, maybe. She hadn't seen arrows like that outside of the traditional sniper division.

The third arrow hit her in the back. Lan Fan staggered. Someone seized her by the wrist, and pulled her down into the grass as she heard a clash of metal, a cry. The Shadow had finally caught up to them. The Emperor was saying something, but she could feel something hot inside her skin, something creeping, like an Amestrian inoculation. His words had gone fuzzy.

"Poison," she said, and then she promptly passed out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N.:
> 
> So, as any good history major knows, I kind of seriously screwed up the last time I updated by offering y'all the sweeping statement of "queer people have always had it hard in China." (I could say it was really late, my time, when I posted, but that'd just be an excuse.) As someone who just recently completed her history thesis, I really should have known better than to have said that to you guys, and for that I apologize.
> 
> For further clarification: the attitude towards LGTBQA (I think the new term is MOLII? Someone clarify?) people in China has of course varied depending on the dynasty, the era, and the millennium. The mainly anti-queer policies of today are not mirrored in history; they largely came into effect during the Qing Dynasty, when the Westerners were heavily influencing China proper, and carried over into the communist state of today. Before that, especially in the medieval period, homosexuality was actually revered in some ways as a love which was greater than love merely for the purpose of procreation; there are a number of emperors who openly acknowledged that they were gay, and had lovers to that effect. Gay men in the Chinese court were called sleeve-cutters, after a story in which an emperor sliced of his own sleeve so as to not wake his lover, who had rolled over onto it.
> 
> At the same time, though, medieval Chinese doesn't distinguish much between gender in talking about people. (There was no term for "he" or "she" in Chinese, so sex has to be defined by context.) Not to mention the fact that all the major sources talk mainly about the court. We don't know what the common people thought of homosexuality or queer identities because there just aren't many sources for that information. Lesbian or bisexual love (or any other kind of non-traditional love, for that matter) is very rarely, if ever, mentioned; I have to make it clear that homosexual love is something that, in medieval China, seems to have been a male-only dominion, not to mention the fact that most of the men who were celebrated in Chinese literature and text for having great gay love stories also had wives and children by those wives. Like other nations in East Asia, China was by no means a queer paradise, no matter the era. Nor is the Xing I am attempting to build an exact copy of China; I decided to make queer identities punishable by law in Xing regardless of faux-Western (i.e. Amestrian, Aerugan, or Cretan influence) because it makes a better story, rather than really clinging to historical fact.
> 
> So. Yeah. There's that clarified.
> 
> Secondly, those of you who caught my dumb Japanese pun: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I'm a dumbass. woot. 
> 
> (Explanation: the word Nohin is a syllabic flip of Nihon, which is the Japanese word for Japan. Nihongo means Japanese; Nohinra means the Nohinra language. Nohin-jin is the same as Nihon-jin [Japanese person] though.
> 
> ...I love dumb puns.)
> 
> Also, thank you all so much for your lovely reviews! They made me smile, and I regret that I haven't answered any of them individually yet. I will be over the next few days, don't worry. Also, I apologize for being unable to update before; I was writing my thesis and doing lots of senior stuff, but on the plus side I am now a college graduate, and free to write more! Hopefully I'll be able to update soon.


	16. Stake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmare crept up on her like a cat, and snatched her away before she could escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "Kaguya's Theme I," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.  
>  "The Insane Water Dragon," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.  
>  "Losing Consciousness," from the _Muramasa: The Demon Blade_ soundtrack.  
>  "Kurushige," from the _Mononoke_ soundtrack.
> 
> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: Violence, mention of rape.
> 
> Character List:  
> -Lan Fan Huo/Feiyan Ma  
> -Ling Yao  
> -Xiaoqing, a half-Qarashi woman of Xuqu who helped Lan Fan during the Sevens Race. She used to be a Firebrand before her mother died.  
> -Peizhi, a child jockey of Xuqu. Companion of Changchang the crazy mare. Lan Fan saved his life.  
> -Shubiao, AKA Sakari Kazuki, a Nohin Firebrand who broke into Lan Fan's old rooms and attempted to commit suicide before Lan Fan stopped him. He has been imprisoned and watched by Niu Lu for the past few days.  
> -Niu Lu, Lan Fan's maid, half-Drachman, half-Xingese, with red hair and hazel eyes. Very good at interrogation and poisons.  
> -Commander Shan, Ling's cousin and the Commander of the Imperial Guard  
> -Huli, a Firebrand assassin who attempted to kill the Feng triplets at Mei Chang's party  
> -Sheng, a member of Huli's squadron  
> -Lang, a member of Huli's squadron  
> -Mao, a member of Huli's squadron who has a strange obsession with cats  
> -Shiloh Trener, prophet and refugee from Liore. A Letoist who believes himself to be the son of a god.  
> -Gao Bai, a palace healer who fixed Peizhi  
> -Gen Chang, an imperial guard Lan Fan trusted
> 
> If you guys could let me know if these character lists are helping, that would be appreciated.
> 
> The SOTB page on my Tumblr has been updated to include more character bios, etc. You can get to my Tumblr from my FFnet author page; add /sotb after the dot com.
> 
> Apologies for typos. I don't have a beta and it's nearly 3am.

**Fifteen: Stake**

The night the Gathering began, there was a flurry of fireworks in the sky over the Imperial City that lasted for a full two hours. Xiaoqing was on the roof a good half-an-hour before they started, arms wrapped around her knees and her coarse black hair in a long fishtail down her back. Even through two floors of wood, she could hear the raucous catcalls of the men in the tavern, and she pulled her knees closer against her chest. Peizhi was asleep in the spare cot they'd found for him, the hollows under his cheekbones finally filling out after months and years of him looking like a walking skeleton; she wasn't sure what the Ma woman had done to spark such a change, but she'd clearly done something, because Peizhi wouldn't shut up about her.  _Milady Ma did this_  and  _Milady Ma does that_ and  _Milady Ma can ride Changchang_ and  _Milady Ma has six daggers under her mattress_ and on and on and  _on_ until her ears vibrated and she ground her teeth with frustration.

On principle, she couldn't hate Feiyan Ma. After all, it wasn't as if she'd done anything wrong. Whatever had brought her around to ask about the Firebrands, it hadn't hurt anyone in particular.  _And_ she'd saved Peizhi's life when everyone else at the Xuqu track had left him to die. In fact, Xiaoqing owed Feiyan Ma more than the steppes woman might ever realize.

_A Firebrand tried to kill a…comrade of mine last night._

She'd heard about it later. One of the men who came to drink at the Autumn Moon was a footman at the newly refurbished Chang estate, and he'd told her about the party and the gatecrashers and the girl with diamond blades. Of course the Firebrands would want to kill the Fengs, she thought, resting her chin on her kneecaps. The Feng were routing every village that Shiloh Trener had managed to bring under dubious control, setting them to the torch. Men and women and children with Firebrand medallions, all burned, caught, raped, killed. If the Emperor knew, he was saying nothing. She thought of Viola, his wife, a dusky-skinned, dark-haired woman with Ishvalan eyes and strong hands; she could remember Viola and her own mother, huddled together over embroidery and prayer, their voices low and lilting in the firelight. That had been before the leprosy had ravaged her mother, and before Viola Trener had been turned into Lady Viola, Mother of Purity, and kept behind closed doors.

She played with the Firebrand medallion around her neck, tangling the chain between her fingers and twisting until she could feel blood pounding against her knuckles.

New Haven. She'd heard it called other things, too: New Refuge, City of the Heavenly King, the Valley of Fire, the Seat of God's Arrow. It was in a valley in the northwest part of Feng-guo, the only easy entrance hidden by deep waterfalls that the Xingese called  _Kunlun's Tears._  Behind the waterfalls there was a deep-weaving series of tunnels, some man-made, some carved out by centuries of water, and at the end of one of those tunnels was New Refuge. There was no way the Fengs would ever sniff it out. All new initiates brought to New Haven were blindfolded once they came to the falls; no one knew the path aside from Father Trener and his hunting hounds. The only other way to get at the place was by scaling the steep cliffs on the north side of the valley, and they were called God's Teeth for a reason. Rumor said that the only man who had ever survived that climb was Father Trener himself.

 _If you could get me into a meeting of the Firebrands_ , she'd said,  _would you?_

By the time death had finally freed her mother, she'd ben so wasted and thin from her refusal to eat, her skin woven back together by bandages they couldn't afford, Xiaoqing had cried. She'd been thirteen, and thought her mother invincible. Now she was eighteen, and thought she'd been a fool. Father Trener had closed her mother's eyes and ordered her body be burned, and as her father had fallen to his knees to cry, Xiaoqing had torn off her medallion, and thrown it at Shiloh Trener's feet.

He'd collected it carefully, placed it back into her palm, and curled her fingers over it before tucking his hands into his sleeves and walking away.  _Bastard_ , she'd yelled after him,  _lying bastard_ , and that night she and her father had collected their things and allowed themselves to be blindfolded and led out of the waterfall tunnels.

A rosetta of vivid green burst like a star over the palace, and Xiaoqing wiped her nose roughly with her sleeve.

"Damn." She heard a scuffling, and then Peizhi had pulled himself onto the roof, scraping his knee and scuffing his cheek over the dirty terracotta. "When you wanna hide, you hide."

Xiaoqing scowled at him, or tried to. It came out kind of wet and limpid. "Go away, Peizhi."

"'m watchin' the fireworks," he said, and plopped down beside her without further comment. Mistress Ma had told both Xiaoqing and Peizhi that the doctor had thought he was around thirteen, but since Peizhi hadn't known his birthday, they'd chosen one for him: October fifteenth, the opening night of the Gathering. He dragged one dirty toe over an even dirtier tile.

"What'cha cryin' for?"

"I'm not," she said thickly, and blew her nose into her sleeve again. She was going to be the one washing everything anyway. She could afford to ruin the sleeve. "I'm just thinking."

He hummed under his breath. There was a whoop from downstairs, and the baby began to cry. Xiaoqing swore under her breath, and wondered if her stepmother was going to do anything about it. Noor was a lovely woman until she had a responsibility to fulfill, and then she spent more time combing her hair than anything. It was why Xiaoqing was the one working in the inn, watching the children, cooking the meals, and organizing finances, while Noor sat in her and Baba's room, and complained about the humidity and the rain and the smell of the stables across the street. Why her father—eminently practical, quietly brilliant in a way that hurt him—had ever married that woman, she had no idea.

Peizhi shifted uncomfortably. The blow to his head had only really just begun to heal, the scab livid and dark against his brownish skin. His hand was still bound up in bandages. He coughed. "…you mad at me?"

Xiaoqing blinked. Then she hooked an arm around Peizhi's shoulders, pulling him against her side. He was still so thin, she thought. Maybe he always would be. It was possible that he could die here, the same way so many of her other boys had. She'd watched so many of the market children get killed or worse. Xuqu was known for its pleasure alleys and its slave markets, and street waifs were primary targets. She'd never asked Peizhi where his parents were, or where he'd come from. He'd never volunteered. He flinched when she touched him, but eventually settled into her side, the way a younger brother might have. "Don't be stupid," she said, and rubbed his shoulder. "Why'd I be mad at you?"

He shifted again. "'m not good at nothin'."

"Lies." She sniffed. "You're good at horses. You're good at washing plates. You're good at watching the baby and dealin' when he has colic or his teeth hurt."

Peizhi preened a little. Then he turned his head, pressing his cheek into her shoulder. "Why're you upset, then?"

Xiaoqing couldn't quite think of what to say. Finally, she licked her lips. "I was thinking of my mother. She's dead."

"So's mine," he said, in the simple indifferent voice of one who has known their mother, and long since stopped caring. "She wanted to be an Orchid Woman. She were only a streetwalker."

That explained some of Peizhi's hesitance around their male customers. Even if he'd been very young when she'd died, streetwalkers like Peizhi's mother couldn't afford to take expensive customers. She tightened her grip on Peizhi's shoulder, and wondered if he'd been used when his mother had been too tired or too drunk to care.

"Mine was a Firebrand," she said. "Back in the early days, when Father Trener was just Shiloh. She'd already been a Letoist."

He blinked at her. "Are you?"

She shook her head and looked up at the sky just in time to see a trio of firecrackers go off, gold and crimson mixed, falling in a shower of sparks. Imperial colors. "I used to be. Now I don't know."

They sat there quietly for a few more minutes, until she felt Peizhi go stiff. Xiaoqing pulled her arm away from him, letting him scoot back, and Peizhi lay flat on the tile with his hands behind his head (or his good one, anyway) watching the fireworks go off. Downstairs, the local drunks had begun to sing a disgusting ditty about a woman with small feet and perfect breasts, and the three men she'd snuck into her bed. Xiaoqing hummed along anyway; she could hear Peizhi muttering the lyrics under his breath when the drunkards mixed them up.

"Why d'you like Mistress Ma so much?" she asked. Peizhi blinked at her, and then closed his eyes again, listening to Xuqu and the crackle of far-off fireworks.

"She saved my life."

"Other than that," Xiaoqing said. "I mean, I know she did. I like her for that. I just…"  _I don't understand. I want to understand. What is it about a person like her that gets the allegiance of street rats and nobles alike without her even trying?_  "I don't get her."

"Dunno if there's anything  _to_ get." Peizhi opened his eyes, and watched the stars. She wondered if they were watching back. "For a lady that stinks of secrets, she don't smell a bit like lies."

Xiaoqing considered that. "Do you trust her?"

Peizhi shrugged. After a moment, he said, "Changchang likes her."

 _Changchang's a horse_ , Xiaoqing nearly replied, but then she remembered that to Peizhi, Changchang was anything but a horse. Mother and bully and best friend in one. She pulled her braid over her shoulder, and began to check for split ends. She hadn't cut her hair since her mother had died, and it was nearly to her hips. "How you gonna repay her?"

He gave her a look.

"I heard what you said. Don't be such a brat about it." She huffed, and flung her hair back over her shoulder again. "If she asked you to do something dangerous, would you do it?"

"Mm." Peizhi closed his eyes.

"What if she asked you to kill someone?"

"Maybe." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Don't think she would though."

"Why? You said yourself she has six daggers and can fight like a wildcat. Sure she kills people."

"Changchang."

Xiaoqing wrinkled her nose.

" _Jie-jie_ ," Peizhi said, sitting up. Her heart twinged. It was the first time Peizhi had ever called her anything at all; she'd never dreamed he'd say something like  _older sister._  "What'd she ask?"

Xiaoqing fixed her veil back over her face, tucking one end over her ear. Her breath fluttered against the cloth. When she stood, she had to beat the dust off of her backside. Peizhi watched her as she did it, his eyes carefully blank, his mouth pursed. Xiaoqing ruffled his hair, careful of his still sore head. The next firework to go off was Feng green, and it crackled away into the night air like lightning.

"She wants my help finding some people," said Xiaoqing. "I guess I had better start looking."

She was turning to crawl back into her window when Peizhi cleared his throat.

"Want some help?"

Slowly, Xiaoqing grinned.

* * *

The nightmare crept up on her like a cat, and snatched her away before she could escape.

She hurt. Her eyes were open, and she could not scream. Her left arm was gone, leaving a hollow metal socket, holes where the nerves connected, open and raw against the air. The room looked like a mix between the Gathering Hall and the Hall of the Pearls, and it was full of laughing faces. On the imperial dais, a man knelt, his hair hanging long over his face. Behind him, some shadowy figure—the face flickered and changed between Xinzhe, Dong Mao, Sakari Kazuki and Fuhrer King Bradley—stood in robes before a broken lotus throne. Someone tucked a flower into her hair, a red spider lily dripping blood. It stuck to her cheek, warm and coppery, and she could taste it in her mouth.

The shadowy figure seized the hair of the kneeling man, and wrenched his head back. The Emperor. Her master. He was quiet, his eyes open, looking forward into death.

The assassin from the Chang party slit her master's throat, and all she could do was cry.

* * *

He had discovered that if he lay very quietly on the hard metal cot he'd been provided, and stared very hard at the ceiling right above his head, he could tell how much time had passed. The door to his cell was made of metal, and had no handle and no hinges on this side—he was fairly certain that it only opened through the red-haired devil's sheer force of will—but there was a single, palm-sized peep hole that slid open and closed. The construction of it hadn't been as flawless as the rest of the door, however, and outside, there had to be a window or  _something_  to let in light, because if he lay very still in his very dark cell, and stared at the ceiling above his head, there was a reflection and refraction of that light through a crack left in the peephole.

Shubiao estimated that he had been unconscious that first night for about nine or ten hours. His body had ached from the cot, but not overly so. His ribs and tongue had bothered him more. They still ached, and the bruises from Ying's metal fist had barely begun to fade. ( _My mistress would mind if you died._ ) He was also fairly sure (he was pretty hazy on this part; broken ribs did that) that about a day and a half had passed before he'd realized that he could watch the sunlight change. So that meant he'd been in this hole for a grand total of four and a half days. In that time, the red-haired devil woman had come twice—the first time, when she'd used his ribs against him; the second, using alkahestrical pressure points. Each time, he'd tried to bite off his tongue rather than tell her anything. Each time, she'd prevented him. But he'd kept his mouth shut anyway. Father Trener would want him to.

He thought of the look on the man's face when he'd found Sakari Kazuki in that alleyway in Bianjiehu, three years ago. Beaten half to death, his face swollen, his Nohin blood dripping from his nose and mouth. "You look awful," Father Trener had said. He'd just been another white man, then. "I'll help you, if you like."

Sakari Kazuki had tried to mug him, and Father Trener had taken his knife and taught him how to use it better.

Shubiao blinked slowly. The tiny strip of light on the ceiling wavered, and then solidified again. He fancied he could see butterflies out of the corner of his eye.

They'd fed him. Given him a pot to piss in. But the Ying woman, she'd taken his medallion away from him; she'd taken his Nohin name away, and even though Father Trener's new name had rung true in every part of him— _mouse_ , he'd said,  _a talent at hide-and-go-seek_ —something in his soul ached at its loss. He opened his fisted palm, and traced the kanji against his skin. 坂里和樹. His Nohin name, his childhood name, the name that had been taken by the imperials.

He bared his teeth in the dark.

Almost every Firebrand had a story like his. There were more Nohin amidst Father Trener's people than even he knew, and he'd met at least two dozen of them. There were ex-slaves there, women on the run from abusive husbands, lepers and cripples, freaks and sodomites. Father Trener blessed them all. He gave them—he had given  _Shubiao_ —new names, new chances, a new life. "All are welcome in the eyes of Leto, our generous father," he'd said. "And if my holy Father can welcome you, why shouldn't I?"

He'd even brought chimeras with him, from Amestris. Real live chimeras, people who could truly turn into animals, or at least halfway there. There was only two of them, a man and a woman, and they were thankfully incapable of breeding, but they were some of the strongest fighters he'd ever seen. The man was a leopard, the woman an eagle. Both runaways from the Amestrian military. He'd thought Mao a chimera the first time he'd seen her, but then he'd seen her strike a deal with the alkahestrist in camp, and he'd realized she just really,  _really_ wanted to be one.

Shubiao shook his head twice. This wasn't the time to be thinking of Mao. They had abandoned him, his squadmates—even Dushe had left him behind. At least he hadn't been cursed with  _qi_ -sensing; he hadn't had to endure feeling his partner flee the moment Shubiao had been discovered. He touched his empty gums with his tongue, where his front two teeth had been knocked out by a Child of the Setting Sun, during the massacre of the Sakari, and then licked his lips.

He thought of the woman Ying again, of Feiyan Ma. ( _My mistress would mind if you died._ ) The slant to her mouth when she'd pinned him to the wall haunted his nightmares. Shubiao rolled over onto his shoulder, ignoring the knife-slash of his broken ribs, and began to pick at the stone wall. She had allied herself with the Fengs. The Fengs were possessed by demons, preventing them from creating the true kingdom of the Sun God. Father Trener had told him so. That meant that the girl who had looked at him with such shock and hurt when he'd called her a bitch, the girl who had taken him down so handily and so  _swiftly_ , the girl who commanded the loyalty of half-breed whores like the red-haired woman—she had to be devil-kin. No true human soul would willingly ally with people like the Fengs.

He felt the scab on his index finger break, and blood began to trickle down his knuckles.

It had been four days since he'd reported in. The rest of his squad wasn't coming for him. They'd told him they wouldn't be, if this happened, but he'd clung to the small hope, for the first day and a half he'd been conscious, that they would anyway.  _They think I'm dead. Probably._ It would be better if he was; he could move on to his next life in paradise, at the side of the Sun God, rather than be stuck in this hellish cell with stale air and no sky.

He heard the lock outside click. Shubiao covered his face before the light outside could blind him, and squinted through his fingers at the figure in the doorway. It wasn't the red-haired woman. It was a person he'd never seen before. Short, stocky. Braided hair. A sword at his hip. A guard.

Shubiao bared his teeth in a smile.

"Heard you're a Firebrand," said the guard. His accent was Feng-guo. ( _My mistress would mind if you died,_  the red-haired demon said again, but he shoved the thought away.) Shubiao lowered his hand slowly, and hid it behind his back. It wouldn't do for the guard to see how bloody and disfigured his hands were. He was fairly sure the red-haired demon had taken all his fingernails.

Shubiao said nothing. He just stared. The guard glanced over his shoulder, as if waiting for someone to catch him, and then dropped a hand to his sword and pushed the door shut behind him with his hip. He was carrying a lantern, one made with shards of red glass, and the dull light didn't tear at Shubiao's eyes nearly so badly as the sun had.

The door was still partway open.

"You know," said the guard conversationally, setting the lantern down on the end of Shubiao's cot and coming to stand just out of Shubiao's reach. He was older, maybe in his thirties, with a thick mustache that reminded him of Father Trener's. "It's people like you that make me sick to my stomach."

Shubiao licked his lips, and for the first time since he'd been brought to the imperial cells, he spoke. His voice cracked and snapped like a dying fire. "We cleanse the world of evil."

"My wife wasn't evil," said the guard, and his voice was shaking. There was a hiss of drawn metal as he pulled his sword free of its sheath. "My wife was  _pregnant_ , you twisted son of a bitch. Your people raped and killed her while she lay in her bed."

"Blessed be the warrior who cleanses the earth of its taint," said Shubiao. "For it is they that will rest at the right hand of God."

The guard seized him by the hair, and wrenched him off the bed. Shubiao let him do it, hitting the floor with a piteous cry and rolling onto his back to find a sword resting against the hollow of his throat. For a second, he thought about just leaning forward, thought about letting the guard finish it.

But the door was still open, and there was a man with a weapon in his way.

"You bastard," the guard was saying. "You mad sick bastard. You don't even—"

Shubiao twisted his head to the side, letting the sword slide along the thick muscle of his shoulder, and lunged.

The guard was heavier than Shubiao. It worked against him. Shubiao felt a bad knee give out under his weight, and heard a vague crack as something inside (a bone, maybe) snapped. The guard howled. The sword hit the ground with a clatter. Spots from the sunlight still burned at his eyes, but the soft red light helped. Shubiao seized the blade by the handle and used it to slice the guard's throat. Blood sprayed over his face, his neck, his dirty shirt. He could feel the cut on his shoulder pumping, pounding. The guard gurgled. Bubbles of red popped at the corner of his mouth. Shubiao seized the knife from the man's boot, too, and held that in his other fist. He would have taken the guard's boots, but they were two sizes too small. He could tell just by looking. Outside, the light was fading, going orange. It was sunset.

Shubiao looked down at his cracked and bloody hands, and then made his way to the door.

_And he looked into the sun, and saw the Great God's light, and knew it to be good._

* * *

Lan Fan woke slowly and excruciatingly to the flickering light of a single candle. Her head pounded, and her tongue was swollen, sticking to the roof of her mouth. For a terrifying moment, she couldn't swallow, and then she managed to unstick her tongue and work up enough spit to reassure herself again. Her left shoulder was pounding in time with her heart.

She realized, then, that someone had taken her arm off. She could see it out of the corner of her eye, resting on a table, wires sorted neatly by color and not by nerve segment. Her shoulder socket was empty. Lan Fan closed her eyes, hiding her face in the pillow, and wondered why she could still feel her fingers.

"Hey." It was Al. He leaned forward in his chair (someone must have procured it for him; she couldn't remember seeing a chair in her rooms) and rested his hand by her flesh fingers on the bedspread. Lan Fan shifted on her stomach, and squeezed her eyes shut when something in her back tore. "You're awake."

She made a noise that could have been called a growl, if it hadn't been so watery. Lan Fan blinked slowly. She wasn't in her room, she realized. The walls were too pretty for her kitchen garden rooms. Candlelight flickered off lacquer; she couldn't make out what was on it. She licked her lips, and focused hard on Al again. Something in her hurt when she remembered that this had happened before, returning to reason to find her lord gone, her arm missing, and Alphonse Elric watching over her like a mother cat.

She closed her eyes and tried very hard not to cry.

"It's nearly midnight," Al said, and she heard him stand. There was a clink of ceramic, and the sound of water. There were sores inside her lips. "You've been unconscious for most of the day. The poison was fast-acting; you were seizing by the time Ling managed to bring you back to the palace, and even though he'd already managed to extract most of it, there was still enough of it in you to make it…problematic."

Words fell like stones into her mind. Poison. Seizing. Ling. Her master was alive, then. She couldn't remember. A hand brushed her right shoulder, and then Al was helping her sit up, just a little, so she could get at the water. Most of it spilled, but what little she managed to swallow cleared her throat. She coughed and settled back down onto her stomach, ignoring the way her tongue was aching. She must have bitten it. "…happened?"

"Someone tried to kill Ling," said Al matter-of-factly. "You were there, and they managed to shoot you when you put yourself in the way. Do you not remember?"

She licked her lips again, and strained very hard. She could feel a migraine building inside her skull; every flicker of the candle hurt her eyes. "Horse."

Al blinked a few times. Then his face cleared. "You were out riding."

Words curdled in her stomach. Lan Fan turned her face into the pillow, struggling to breathe. It felt as though a vice had just tightened around her ribcage. She could feel heavy padding on her left shoulder, a hole in the muscle. That side was already slightly weaker, due to her catching Greed—her master—in Amestris. She'd torn something then that had never quite healed right, despite all of Mei Chang's tinkering in the journey back over the desert. It would take twice as long to heal as it would normally, thanks to her own stupidity. She felt tears burn at her eyes, and bit her lip hard.

Al either mistook her silence for exhaustion, or noticed the way her empty shoulder was shaking, because he returned to his chair. "Ling's all right," he said. "He wasn't hurt. The Shadow took care of the other archer before anything could happen. He wanted to wait here with you, but some woman with scary eyebrows showed up and insisted he come to a meeting with the Cai. He asked me to send someone when you woke up, though."

 _You shouldn't be here_ , Lan Fan thought, looking at Alphonse Elric through half-lowered lashes.  _Feiyan Ma doesn't know you. Why would you be here otherwise?_

"I'm waiting for Mei," he said, smiling a little, and Lan Fan wondered if she'd spoken aloud. "They called her in when they realized they couldn't identify the poison. There were a lot of doctors in here, and she said it'd be good for me to watch an alkahestrical healing. Someone dragged her away to talk about antivenoms, and you needed to be watched, so I volunteered." He lowered his voice. "There are seven guards outside, and seven more on the rooftops. No one's getting through tonight."

Something in her unwound. Lan Fan sighed, and drew her right arm close against her chest. She was wearing breast-bindings, and the gauze covering her wound looped down and around her ribcage. After all, there was no left arm to anchor it to. Someone had draped a light silk shirt over her back; she could feel the embroidery against her skin. She licked her lips, and slowly began to push herself upright. She heard Al stand. "No, you shouldn't, you'll—"

She tasted vomit on her lips. Lan Fan heaved, and in an instant there was a bowl under her mouth. Al held her hair back as she puked. It looked thin and watery in the candlelight. She heaved, then heaved again, and finally nothing else came up. Al's eyebrows pinched together as he helped her sit up, and Lan Fan used her right hand to close the shirt over her chest. Her head was spinning.

"Mei said you won't be able to keep anything down for a while."

When he offered her more water, she took it anyway. Lan Fan swallowed a mouthful, wondering if she'd bring it back up, and then when she didn't she took another tentative sip. "What kind of poison?"

"She didn't tell me." Al shrugged, but he was hovering anxiously, his hands lifted halfway, as if he was going to push her back down. "There was a lot of Xingese in here and I'm not good enough to understand all the medical terms they were using."

Lan Fan frowned. She'd gone through training with poisons from the time she'd come to the Huo household. Any typical poison—arsenic, cyanide, nightshade—wouldn't have done such a number on her. It would have to have been something rarer, something infinitely more toxic.  _Snake or scorpion venom, maybe. Something from Aerugo or Creta._

Her memory was patchy, wavering, like smoke. Her brain was aching. She crossed her legs (slowly; she'd never realized until her automail surgeries how many muscles had links to the back) and closed her eyes, trying to remember. The Emperor had been smiling at her from in the grass. Willow arrows with eagle fletching. She'd been…she'd been standing, hadn't she? And the Emperor had been out of sight.

Lan Fan opened her eyes to find Al frowning at her. "You shouldn't be sitting up, La—Lady Ma. Mei said all of it was out of your system, but it did a lot of damage they had to fix. They were in here for hours working on you."

Her mouth was still sticky. "They?"

"Mei. A few other doctors. A lady with red hair was here for a while, but the Commander had her go away." He took the water glass back from her and set it on the table. "The last doctor was named Gao Bai; he seemed really worried, when none of the others did. Do you know him?"

Lan Fan nodded, and then regretted it. The tug of muscle in her shoulder burned. With an effort, she lowered herself back to the mattress. The pillow stank of sweat, but it welcomed her like a lover. "Al," she said, and he leaned forward. His eyes were very gold in this light.

"What?"

"They weren't after the Emperor," she said, her words slurring. Then she was asleep again, and at least this time, she didn't dream.

* * *

It was nearly dawn when the door opened, and Ling slunk in. His hair was loose and mussed; his eyes tired. He was still wearing, Al realized, the black  _magua_ and trousers that he'd been in when he'd brought Lan Fan back to the palace, demanding assistance. Now the  _magua_ was unbuttoned; the thin white shirt beneath was stained through with dried blood. He looked hard at Ling, but Ling didn't seem to have noticed. "How is she?" he asked, as soon as the door was shut, and Al sighed.

"She was awake about three hours ago." Al turned back to the bed as Ling came to stand beside him. He wondered if Ling realized that Lan Fan had relaxed further into the pillows as soon as Ling had come into the room. She must, Al thought, be tapped into the Dragon's Pulse even while she was asleep. "She said the attempt wasn't meant for you."

Ling stayed quiet for a long moment."Did she believe the story about Mei?"

"Hey. I don't lie. Mei asked me to watch her until she came back. I just…didn't tell her that I would have been here anyway."

Ling flashed him a tired smile, and brought the empty chair around to sit by the head of the bed. Al glanced at the automail arm on the table. It looked like something dead, he thought; like a metallic worm with its guts sprawling across the table. He'd always wondered how automail could look so alive when it was attached to a person, when it seemed so dead just lying on its own. (He had never voiced these thoughts to Winry, because to her, automail was always alive.)

"You look like you were in a fistfight," said Al, and Ling closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair.

"My mother was not particularly happy with me."

He thought of the woman with scary eyebrows and thick orange blossom perfume. She'd swept into the room within ten minutes of Lan Fan being brought here, and demanded (in very polite, very reverential terms) that Ling come with her immediately or else be skinned alive. It had been the whole reason Al had been asked to stay in the first place. As an Amestrian, he had no political reason to hurt Lan Fan; as friend to both of them, he had no capability of doing it. In fact, Al was fairly sure that the only reason Ling had been able to leave with Scary Eyebrow Lady had been because both Al  _and_ Mei had been watching over Lan Fan at that point. "That was—" Al paused, looked at the door, switched to Amestrian, and repeated, in a lower voice: "That was your  _mother_?"

Ling smiled. "The Empress Dowager Huian Yao herself, may she live for a thousand years." He rubbed the crease between his eyebrows. "She wants Feiyan Ma banished yesterday. It took me all this time to convince her to at least hold off until the wound heals. Hopefully in that time I'll be able to persuade her otherwise."

Al rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face. "You people just don't know when to quit, do you?"

"There's a saying about the imperial court here that you'll like." Ling cleared his throat. "'Even shadows plot here.' Politics doesn't stop, especially not for piddly little assassination attempts."

Al scoffed into his hands. "Why banishment? What did L—Lady Ma do?"

Ling gave Lan Fan a look that could only be described as exasperated affection. "Lady Feiyan Ma accused the imperial government of endorsing the Nohin massacre."

There was a moment of silence. Al leaned back into his chair. "Well, it did, didn't it?"

"Of course it did," Ling sighed, "but nobody  _talks_ about it. It's equivalent to someone mentioning the groom's bad divorce at a second wedding, but with genocide." On the bed, Lan Fan stirred, and they both watched her until she fell quiet again. When Ling spoke, his voice was much softer. "Don't get me wrong; she said something that should have been said over a decade ago. I'm grateful to her for saying it. I just wish that this hadn't been the outcome."

"Do we know that this is because of what she said yesterday, though?" Al stood, and went to the arm on the table, looking without touching. The primary nerve connectors were made of red wire, like bloody veins. "Couldn't it be because of you?"

"Of course it could be because of me," Ling snapped. His voice cracked. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It could be for any number of reasons. She might have insulted someone who decided to take revenge, or someone decided that a nomad girl wasn't good enough to go riding with the Emperor. This sort of thing…it's not uncommon. Especially not when my father was—"

He stopped, suddenly, his eyes caught on something in thin air. Al waited, but Ling said nothing else. Instead, he let out a breath, and reached out with one hand, resting his fingers close to Lan Fan's cheek, less than an inch between them. "Mei's coming," he said. "You should meet her at the door. You've spent too long in here already. It's possible that it'll cause problems already."

Al touched his finger to the center of the metal palm on the table. He'd known coming in that it was possible his presence could blow Lan Fan's cover—or, at the very least, cause suspicions that whatever she was doing with the Emperor wasn't necessarily just making an enemy of the rest of the court. He'd done it anyway, because Ling had asked him to, because Lan Fan had needed someone she trusted when she woke up, and because he was selfish enough to want to watch over his hurt friend, even if it meant ruining what they were planning. But he wasn't blind to the consequences if he stayed any longer, now that Ling was back. He bowed. "Majesty," he said, in Xingese. "It was my honor to wait in your place. Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

He looked at Lan Fan for just a moment, just long enough for Ling to pick up the silent addendum— _anything, for either of you_ —and then he left the Peony Pavilion, just in time to meet Mei at the main doors. She took one look at his face, and straightened up to her full height, her eyes dagger-sharp and full of intent.

"Come on," she said in Amestrian. "I already have some leads."

Al waited until they were out of sight of the guards before putting an arm around her shoulder and tugging her into his side. She went very stiff, but then relaxed into him with a tired little sigh that made him want to smile.

"You're perfect," he said. "Did you know that?"

Mei flushed pink and beamed at him.

* * *

"The steppes woman lives."

The private room of the Xuqu inn stank of smoke and rotting straw. Outside, dogs snapped and snarled. One of the inn servingmen was taking loud bets on the winner.  _Dogfights, cockfights, and horse-races_ , Lang thought.  _Signs of a declining world._

Sheng looked at each of them in turn. Mao was staring at the table, digging her nails into the wood. Lang was standing behind Huli, his arms crossed. He, out of all of them, hadn't earned Sheng's wrath yet. After all, he had been in a completely different part of the city during the attack on Feiyan Ma, imperial whore.  _He_ hadn't been the one to miss an easy shot.

Dushe was absent. The Emperor's Shadow had cut his throat in the fields outside of the Baihu Ward. Mao and Huli had had to leave his body behind for the crows.

Lang crossed himself at the thought, and mumbled a prayer to Leto. Hopefully, Dushe would find peace in the next life, as he hadn't in this one.

Nobody said anything. Mao's  _qi_ signature was leaping all over the place, even worse than it usually did. She wasn't crazy—if anything, Mao was frighteningly sane—but there was something about the way her  _qi_ interacted with the world around it that was deeply unsettling. Instead of being contained within her immediate vicinity, lashed to her skin like all polite  _qi-_ users, it  _jumped_. She threw it in people's faces.

Mao turned to look at him, her new cat-pupils narrowing, and Lang focused very hard on Sheng.  _No, I wasn't just staring at you. Lies._ Especially considering Mao had been the one to actually hit Feiyan Ma. Even if that arrow hadn't pierced the heart.

"Would one of you care to explain how this occurred?" Sheng said, in a frighteningly calm voice. "How such an  _easy_ assignment turned into such a catalclysmic failure?"

Mao flinched, her  _qi_  jumping sickly against Lang's senses, and raked her long nails over the wood. Sheng had been the one to recruit her; Mao may not have worshipped the ground Sheng walked on, like some of the other Firebrands did, but she cared very much what the proctor said and did. Huli, though, didn't give a shit. He leaned back in his chair until there was only two legs resting on the floor, twirling the nomad's knife between his gloved fingers.

"Technically," said Huli, "she'd be dead by now if she hadn't been rushed back to the palace so quickly. We were depending on the Shadow being further back than she was."

"It troubles me," said Sheng, "that this is the second time we have had the opportunity to take out this woman, and the second time that we have failed."

"Really?" Huli shrugged. He was shorter than Lang by two finger-widths, but there was something about him that made him seem taller than everyone else in the room. His hair was braided down his back, and Lang could just see the edges of the scar where Huli's old liege lord had tried to split his skull. The hand that had been run through by Ying—Feiyan Ma—was still bandaged. "I think it's lucky more than anything."

Lang blinked. Sheng's eyes narrowed. It was Mao, though, who turned. "Explain," she said, and her cat teeth gleamed. Father Trener had been the one to name her  _Cat—_ "your previous life," he said, crossing his fingers over her forehead at their shared naming ceremony. "You are feline beneath the skin." Thanks to alkahestry, Mao was as close as she could get to being a cat while still walking on two legs. Even her voice had a strange, mewing quality to it; he wondered if she'd paid for someone to work on her vocal cords.  _It'll be her hair next,_  he thought.  _Tri-colored, like a ship's cat. Keep the infidel rats at bay._

"Clearly, the Sun God—may he bless us all—wants this woman alive for some reason." Huli flipped the knife up into the air and caught it by the blade. "We're the best Father Trener has to offer. That's why we're in Xinjing. If she escapes from us, not once but  _twice_ , I have to question if there's some divine intervention going on here."

There was a moment of silence. Sheng let out a long slow breath, and began to rub her temples with her delicate fingers. Her Aerugan slave collar clinked against her throat. Mao and Lang looked at each other quickly.

 _Godblessed?_  Lang signed. Huli, who couldn't understand sign language, looked to Sheng for translation. Once it had been delivered, he shrugged.

"Godblessed or godcursed, it doesn't matter. What matters is that our Heavenly Father seems to want her alive, for what purpose, we don't know." He bared his teeth in a smile.

"Or she is allied with a devil," Mao hissed. "Have you considered that, in your damn theological theories?"

"'course I have." Huli scowled. "Hell, maybe she's just really lucky. Whatever the reason, I still think keeping an eye on her is a better idea than outright killing her."

Sheng scoffed. "You just want to beat her."

"And what's wrong with that?" Huli tossed the knife straight up, and it stuck deep into the ceiling. Above them, someone stomped a few times, and swore loudly. "It's not as though she's not worth beating. The last time a woman was able to beat me was when I went up against Sheng. She's a worthy adversary for any of us."

Lang thought of the woman he'd seen through the window in the Imperial Palace, the last time he'd snuck inside to meet with their contacts. Beautiful, of course—the Emperor wouldn't have been taking her to bed if she hadn't been—but there was something about her that made that her looks not really matter. Her  _qi_ had been tightly leashed, carefully controlled. It had been the way she moved, he decided eventually, that had surprised him. Like a wolf on the prowl. In his mind, he'd started calling her  _lang hai_ , wolf-child, instead of her given name, or even Ying as Huli called her. She was too earth-driven to be a hawk.

He flicked his fingers at Sheng, and then signed,  _If she could be turned, she could be a powerful ally._

Sheng frowned. "You've observed them, Lang. Do you think she would be willing to turn on the Fengs?"

Lang considered for a moment, and then lifted one shoulder.  _She is disliked throughout the court. The triplets seem to see her as an amusing toy. If they were to be exposed, it is possible she could come to our way of thinking._

Huli waited until Sheng translated, and then stood to wrench the stolen knife back out of the ceiling. "Don't let anyone say that we don't use our heads," he said, and dropped back into his seat again. "Besides, it's clear the girl is close to the Emperor, or becoming so very quickly. If we can use her to get to him, so much the better."

"The Feng are our primary targets," Mao snapped.

"The Feng will be dead with or without Ying's involvement," Huli snarled back. "I'd rather we keep such an imperial vulnerability alive to get real use out of her then kill her off when she can just as easily be distracted."

Mao scoffed. "Distracted by what? You said yourself, she barely leaves the Feng alone."

"It's the Gathering," Sheng said, before Huli could open his mouth. "They will be separated eventually whether they like it or not. Besides, the triplets will soon have their own problems. I received a message this morning from Chai; Mengyao Feng has begun his yearly tour of Feng-guo. Father Trener is on the move. By this time next month, Sun God willing, the city of Bianjiehu will be ours."

Mao hummed in pleasure.

"A vote, then," Huli said. "All in favor for leaving Feiyan Ma alive, raise your hand."

Lang lifted his hand. So did Huli. After a moment, Sheng followed. Mao kept her palms plastered to the table, stubbornly, and Lang wondered if she was going to hiss and spit at the thought of being outvoted. Sheng cleared her throat, and stood.

"You'd better be right about this," she said to Huli, and then she swept out of the room. Mao followed her, slinking.

Huli drummed his fingers against the tabletop, and then looked up at Lang.

"You can write. Tell me how your project is going. I want some good news to send back to New Haven before we can bring back the triplets' heads."

* * *

The next time she woke, the sun had risen, there was a blanket over her hips, and the Emperor was watching her.

Lan Fan sat up sharply, and nearly screamed. Her muscles had tightened while she'd slept—who knew for how long—and her left shoulder felt as though a colony of wasps had taken up residence. The migraine had been replaced by the kind of dizziness that made her eyes cross. She stretched out wildly with her  _qi_ -sense and then just as suddenly shut it down, because she could feel Gen Chang at the door and he was good enough to remember the Shadow's touch. She wasn't fuzzy anymore—if anything, she was  _over_ sharp, everything coming so clear and bright that her eyes watered. The Emperor stood, and set one hand against her uninjured shoulder. The touch burned like a brand. There was blood  _all over him_. "Hey," he said. "Hey, it's all right."

"Majesty," she said, and began to cough. His fingers tensed against her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the guards on the inner door watching her carefully. Both of them were new hires; she didn't recognize their faces. Lesser Yao cousins. They had her master's nose. "You're—"

"Lay down, please. You'll—"

" _No_ ," she said, reaching out with one hand (her only hand) and then pulling it back again. He blinked once. Then he looked down at his chest, at the great brown smear of dried blood, and went white around the lips. There was another splash of it across his cheekbone, half flaked away.

"No," he said, and reached forward to touch her cheek. She couldn't help it. She leaned into his palm, panting, each breath driving a railroad spike into her shoulder and ribs. "I'm all right. This isn't mine. It's all right."

His thumb brushed along the line of her cheekbone. Lan Fan wondered if she was crying. It felt like she had teared up, certainly. Her eyes were stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut, and focused hard on her breathing.  _Breathe in for seven, hold it, breathe out for eleven._  By the time she'd steadied herself again, the Emperor had pulled away.

Now that it was light out, the windows thrown open and sunlight spilling in, she could tell they were in the Peony Pavilion. Not in the imperial chambers—that would have been too suspicious, too risqué, even considering her master's plan of…whatever it was—but in one of the side-rooms, one that a visiting wife from the Lotus Hall would have used. There was an ugly twist to her insides at the thought, and she made herself ignore it. Still, Feiyan Ma would have to ask. "Where am I?"

"You're back in the palace," said the Emperor, and dropped down onto the bed next to her, sitting close enough for her to feel the heat of him. "You saved my life out there in the reeds, Feiyan Ma. I owe you a debt I can't repay."

She thought she felt a tear run down her cheek.  _I'm your Shadow_ , she wanted to say.  _This is what I'm meant to do._ Lan Fan swallowed hard, and stared at the bedspread, a sumptuous thing with red-and-gold stitching in ivory silk. It must have been added after she'd stopped bleeding; she couldn't find any spots on it. "No," she said, in a soft voice. "No, majesty. You don't owe me anything. Not for that."

"Lady Ma." There was a command in his voice. She looked up again, met his eyes, and then stared at his ear instead. "You saved my  _life_. The gods would have my hide if I ignored that."

He set his hands in his lap and tapped his index finger twice.  _Listen_ , it meant, and she blinked and went over the words again.  _You saved my life out there in the reeds._ From what she could remember of the attack, the arrows had never been aimed at the Emperor at all. They had been aiming for her. The Emperor would know the difference.

 _If they were aiming for him_ , she realized,  _then I was caught in the crossfire. If they were aiming for me, then I'm a danger to him, and our plans are ruined._

She nodded once, slowly, and then bowed her head. "I only meant," she said, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, "that…that you brought me back here, majesty. You saved my life as well. What I did…that doesn't compare."

"Of course it does." His hands relaxed. "Your emperor was left defenseless, and you threw yourself in front of a poisoned arrow to prevent my death. That's no small thing. If you would ask anything of me, I would grant it in a heartbeat, Lady Ma. Never doubt that."

She dipped her head into as deep a bow as she could manage, with the muscles of her neck and shoulder shrieking at her. "I am blessed by your magnanimity, majesty."

He waved his hand in dismissal, and stood. "It's good that you're awake," he said. "Are you hungry? The healers demanded that I let them know the moment you were awake, but after they check you over I'm sure they'll let you eat something. Your lady—Niu Lu, I think her name is?—has been waiting outside the pavilion all this time, along with a few others."

She blinked. "Others?"

To her great surprise, Master Ling smiled. "My cousins are here to see you, it seems. The Feng triplets. There was another waiting with them, one of the Chens, but he was summoned for a meeting and requested that my guards give you a message. I believe Gen Chang has it."

She gave the Emperor a hard look, but his court mask was back. It was perfectly crafted; she couldn't tell if he was smiling or grimacing. "I will be sure to ask him, majesty."

"By the way," Master Ling added, as he made his way towards the door marked with an imperial dragon. "I've taken the liberty of appointing Gen Chang as your personal guard until this business is sorted out, Lady Ma. I hope you don't object."

Lan Fan bowed her head, and wondered if he could hear her grinding her teeth. "I—Of course not, majesty. Is…" She hesitated. "Is he…aware of my position in court?"  _Does he know I'm undercover?_  Lan Fan winced at the thought. The more people keeping a secret, the more likely it was for that secret to get out. Now it numbered seven—her, the Emperor, the Commander and Suyin, Mei Chang, Al Elric, and Gen Chang, imperial guardsman.

"I have told him who you are, and informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he is to follow your commands in all things." The Emperor paused. "I thought having an extra pair of eyes and ears around the palace would be…useful for you, Lady Ma." A smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. "Believe me when I say I have absolutely no illusions about your ability to take care of yourself."

"Well." Lan Fan huffed a little, and then hated herself for it. She cleared her throat, and stared at the blankets again. "My…My thanks, imperial majesty."

"Good." Ling picked at the blood on his cheek. "I'm going to bathe and change. And then I think I'll join you for breakfast, because I haven't eaten in ten hours, and I am  _starving_."

And with that, he shut the door between his room and her sickbed.

Lan Fan hid her face in the pillow, and swore.


	17. Meteor Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Huo does not cry, she told herself, and raised her gaze to the Empress, licking the blood off her teeth. A Huo does not cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "Homeward," by Jia Peng Fang.  
> "For the World," from the _Hero_ soundtrack.  
>  "Farewell, Hero," from the _Hero_ soundtrack.  
>  "Geisha Spider's Appearance," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR: Mentions of attempted rape, racism, blood.
> 
> DEFINITION: Laowai (pinyin lǎowài) is a rude word for "outsider"or "foreigner." I've heard it translated as "whitey."
> 
> DRAMATIS PERSONAE:  
> Lan Fan Huo, that badass we all love so much. Alias Feiyan Ma.  
> Ling Yao, the Dawn Emperor, the Son of the Gods, and kind of an oblivious dork. But not really.  
> Mei Chang, Imperial Princess and alkahestrist. Apparently doesn't like Feiyan Ma all that much. Her pet begs to differ.  
> Huian Yao, Ling's mother, career politico, major bitch.  
> Niu Lu, a half-Drachman maidservant who is helping Lan Fan root out just what the Feng are doing anyway.  
> Peizhi, a beggar boy who races horses for a living.  
> Al Elric, a nosy Amestrian with a huge heart that's gonna get him into trouble someday.  
> Sakari Kazuki (mentioned), also known as Shubiao, a Nohin nomad who is a part of the Fires of God.  
> Lien Hua Feng, an Imperial Cousin and companion of Feiyan Ma. Her motives remain a mystery.  
> Xinzhe Feng, Lien Hua's brother. In a secret relationship with Mingli Chen, Feiyan Ma's tutor.  
> Gen Chang, Mei Chang's third cousin and a guardsman in the imperial palace. Now Feiyan Ma's bodyguard.
> 
> NOTE: One difference between this chapter and the FFnet chapter is that Huian Yao is less explicit in her phraseology than she is here.

**Sixteen: Meteor Hammer**

_20th October 1918  
3rd year of the Dawn Emperor_

Every time she blinked, Gen Chang flinched.

Lan Fan put a hand to her shoulder, and let out a breath. At the door, Gen Chang winced again. She bit back a curse. In the day or so that had passed since she’d regained consciousness, she had felt Gen Chang fading in and out of her muffled _qi_ sense—doing rounds around the Pavilion, most likely—but she hadn’t seen him. Finally, at dawn on the second morning, she’d just requested his presence, and within thirty seconds he’d slunk into her borrowed room, looking as though he was ready to be whipped. He darted a look at her through his bangs, and bowed. “My lady Ma,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice. “Is there anything this one might be able to assist you with?”

 _Stop cowering,_ she thought at him. _It’s distracting._ “Not really,” she said after a moment. “I wanted to talk to you, that’s all.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, and peeked at her from under the curve of his helmet. Lan Fan looked pointedly to the chair that Niu Lu had been sitting in, and then back at Gen Chang, before turning to her cryptography papers. Tomorrow was the meeting in the letter she’d copied from the Fengs, and she was still no closer to translating the string of numbers she’d found inscribed. Niu Lu had grabbed a few books on cryptography and codes from the library, and they’d been working on it nonstop since she’d woken up, but without the keyword, there was little hope they’d be able to translate it in time. (Niu Lu had finally gone to bed about an hour ago, only because Lan Fan had ordered her. Lan Fan herself had slept for two hours that afternoon, and that would be enough to get her through the next twenty-four hours.)

Finally, Gen Chang— _Chang,_ she thought to herself; _Gen_ was too personal, _guardsman_ too haughty, and she wasn’t about to call him anything else—sank into the chair as though awaiting execution. 

She only realized after Chang had settled himself that she’d conducted the whole conversation so far in the northwestern dialect. No wonder he was looking at her like that—as though she was a viper, curled up, ready to strike. She closed her book. “I’ve never had a guard of my own before,” she said, pulling her papers closer to her with her only hand and spreading them out further over the bedspread. The empty sleeve of her jacket dangled against her side. “I probably won’t be very good at being guarded. I guess I wanted to apologize before I make you mad.”

“This one is sure that my lady Ma wouldn’t—” he coughed. “That she _would not_ do any such thing. And if the worst should happen, this one will do his duty.”

Lan Fan couldn’t help but wonder how Chang defined _worst_. She was pretty sure it was much different than what she would think of it. She refused to think of Greed, and the look on the young master’s face when the homunculus took control again.

“If the worst should happen,” she said, “I’d rather have someone I can trust to protect my back than someone who’d try to get me out of harm’s way.”

“But my lady, I—” Chang snapped his mouth shut. He thought for a moment, and then opened it again. “This one—”

“Please stop that,” said Lan Fan, with all the weariness of a bodyguard confined to a bed. “I hate it when people do that. Don’t.”

Chang considered that. Then he looked at her again. He wasn’t quite shy anymore. Nervous, certainly, and determined, but not shy. He folded one hand around the hilt of his sword. “Are you anticipating the worst happening, my lady Ma?”

“No.” She looked down at the numbers again, and then folded the paper in half and slid it into her book. “Not if I can help it. But the people in this court don’t like me. I’ll probably have to end up fighting again, and I don’t like backing down from a battle. I want to know if you’re willing to help me fight, rather than get in my way. If you’re not, then I don’t know what I’m going to do, because I’m not about to tell His Imperial Majesty that the guard he appointed is a pain in the ass, no matter what happens.”

Chang coughed, and fought back a grin, ducking his head a little. Lan Fan hid a smile behind her hair. This was still the same Gen Chang she’d taught to swear in four languages. It was more reassuring than she thought it would be. “Do you still want to do this job, Chang? If you don’t, it’s all right. I can take care of myself, and I can…I can tell His Majesty something. Say it was my fault. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Lan Fan bit her lip. Before this had all started, she would have called Gen Chang something a little more than acquaintance, a little less than a friend. She’d taught him swearwords, he’d told her stories about Chang-guo. Chang had been the only one of the imperial guardsmen that she’d trusted enough to leave the Emperor with when she had things of her own to attend to. It was a lot to say, for a Shadow.

Chang shook his head. Beads clattered against his helmet, and the rifle barrel that poked up over his shoulder. All imperial guards were required to carry two firearms in addition to their guardsman’s _dao_ ; Chang had three, plus a knife in his boot. There had been a reason she’d felt comfortable leaving the Emperor in his hands while she was away. “I would be honored,” he said, “to assist my lady in whatever way possible.”

Lan Fan smiled. She cleared her throat, and stopped fiddling with the books. “My schedule isn’t very difficult to keep track of,” she said. “I stay out of the way most of the time. I…His Majesty invited me on dawn rides, but I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to do that again. I spend my mornings working with a war horse, down in the stables. I study with Lord Mingli Chen in the library every other day for part of the afternoon, and then I go to see the Feng triplets, if they’ve invited me somewhere. If they haven’t, I go back to my room and read.” She frowned. “Since it’s the Gathering, I’ll probably have to attend more meetings with Song-guo. The…the matter about the nomadic borders is still unresolved. Unless they did something while I’ve been stuck in bed.”

“Not that I’m aware of, my lady,” said Chang, and Lan Fan blinked at him. “There were whispers that the First Governor of Song-guo formally requested the matter be put on hold until you were well enough to attend the next meeting. I think she liked you,” he added lightly, and Lan Fan blinked.

“Oh.” There was a twist to her gut that hadn’t been there before. She wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or dread. “Well. All right, then.”

Chang leaned back in his chair.

“If…if that’s the case, I’ll be going into court more often. There are...there _were_ three Yao cousins who liked to leave rude messages under my door. I never caught them, but they seemed the type to do it, and they attempted to…” What was the word she was looking for, here? “They tried to bully me the first night I was out in court. Honghui, Dingxiang, and Nianzu Yao. They don’t much like the Lady Feng, either, so it’s possible they’ll try something.” She drummed her fingers against the cover of a book entitled _Numerical Codex_. “Sometimes I go down into Xuanwu Ward, or other places in Xinjing. I know people in Xuqu. Most of the time I don’t leave the palace grounds, but when I do, I don’t…” She hesitated. “I don’t dress like a lady.”

Chang nodded. “That won’t be a problem, my lady. Commander Yao informed me that that might be the case.”

“You talked to the Commander?”

“He was the one who informed me of my next assignment.” He shuddered a little, but said nothing else about it. “It won’t be a problem. I can change.”

Lan Fan wondered if it’d be too much for her to ask that he not follow her during those excursions. She decided that was an argument to be had another day, and nodded.

“It’ll be nice,” he said suddenly, and Lan Fan blinked. “To work with you.” _Again_ , he mouthed, and then winked, so fast she barely saw it. “I am honored to be my lady’s companion.”

He stood, and bowed. Lan Fan gaped. She couldn’t figure out what to say. Either Chang was more charming than she remembered him being—doubtful—or he was taking careful vengeance on her for not explaining her assignment before now. Either way, she now had a feisty guard on her hands. She wasn’t sure having another pair of eyes and ears would be worth this.

Eventually, she cleared her throat. “Um,” she said, eloquently. “Thanks. I think.”

His eyes were twinkling. “Is there anything else you require, my lady?”

 _Yes_ , she thought. _My arm back. And my new mask._ “If Niu Lu’s out there, tell her to go back to bed?” she asked. “Don’t let her in until at least ten o’clock. And if anyone else shows up today…um, just give me a few seconds warning. Please.”

“Of course, my lady Ma,” said Chang, and then he saluted, and left the room with a sharp snap of the door.

Lan Fan shook her head, and went back to her cryptography. 

* * *

Peizhi learned very quickly that there were only two things Xiaoqing was willing to let him do in order to help her track down the firestarters. The first was watch. Peizhi could understand that; he was good at faces, good at remembering names, and once Xiaoqing had told him about the major firestarter haunts in the city, it was stupidly easy for him to sneak into taverns and inns and lurk.

The second was listen. And that meant listen _discretely._ (She had to explain what ‘discretely’ meant twice before he really understood that what she was telling him to do was to keep as far away from the ‘brands as possible, while still being able to hear them.) This rankled. The way she looked at him sometimes reminded him of a cat trying to get at a kitten—worried, hissy, and steaming mad all at once. It was like she thought he was going to get his skull cracked again just by tagging after a fake firestarter for a few blocks. It was smothering.

Peizhi waited on the stoop opposite Hong’s Tavern, kicking his legs back and forth absently. Xiaoqing had caught him trying to cut the cast off of his wrist the night before, and clipped him ‘round the ear, so he had to wear gloves in order to hide the thing. It wasn’t as though a street rat would be able to afford a fancy healer like the ones that had seen him in the Imperial Palace. The cast made his hand and wrist look all lumpy, but if he was lucky, people’d just think it was a deformity or something.

The tavern was in Weiqu, smaller and messier than the Autumn Moon over in Xuqu, with a smell to it like rotting rice. It had taken a grand total of two days sniffing around the Beggar King’s court to hear where the firestarters gathered on their holy days, which, apparently, was the last day of every week. Hong himself was a big firestarter in Xinjing, and if you went into the tavern on a Friday wearing a medallion, he’d give you a free meal. (Firestarter medallions had become a big thing in the black market, now that word had circled about Hong. Peizhi couldn’t think of a single street runner who wouldn’t bow and say _Praise the Lord and all his Light_ for a free dinner.) He’d been sitting on the stoop since a little past dawn, though, and not a single firestarter had passed over the threshold. He was starting to wonder if the Beggar King had been playing him about the whole thing when he saw the foreigner turn the corner onto Whitewall Alley.

He was trying to be unobtrusive. Even a toddler could tell that much. He’d covered his hair, mostly, and he was wearing ratty Xing clothing, and he’d even managed to nail the shuffling walk of a rickshaw driver off duty, but his pale skin was too clean to actually belong to someone from Xuanwu Ward. When he peered out at the crowd from under his cheap cap, his eyes were a startling hazel. Peizhi pulled one knee up against his chest and watched as the foreigner shambled his way down the alley, a stunted bearcat on his shoulder, baring its teeth at anyone who watched him for too long. The foreigner kept turning to the bearcat and shushing it, but it wasn’t doing much. Nor had he noticed the tangle of three mercs following him, keeping a careful eye. He paused parallel to Peizhi, looking up at the sign for Hong’s Tavern, and then muttered something in some foreign language to the bearcat.

“Hey,” said Peizhi, before he could stop himself. The _laowai_ didn’t turn around. He scoffed, swore under his breath, and then left his perch to go tug on the man’s sleeve. “Hey, _laowai_.”

The blonde man turned. On his shoulder, the little bearcat hissed and spat, all its fur on end. _Laowai_ put a hand up to it absently, rubbing behind its ears. “Can I help you?” he asked, in accented Xingese.

“I just thought I’d let you know they’re gonna catch you if you keep staring like that,” said Peizhi. The _laowai_ blinked a few times, and Peizhi huffed before saying it again, slower. He still wasn’t sure the _laowai_ understood everything he’d said, but after a moment, he nodded.

“Thank you for the advice,” he said, “but I’ll be all right.” He said something in his own language, and scooped the bearcat off his shoulder, holding it to his sternum. Once it had quieted down a little, he said, “Who are you?”

“Peizhi.” Peizhi let go of the man’s sleeve, and backed up, out of reach. There were people watching them. He glanced up at the sign to Hong’s Tavern, and then scowled. “If you’re here for free food, it’s not ‘til Friday, and you need a necklace thing for it.”

“I’m not here for food,” said the blonde _laowai_ , and for some stupid reason, he sounded like he was laughing to himself. “I’m Ah-Li.”

Peizhi ruminated on that. “That’s a stupid name. It sounds like you made it up.”

“I did. You couldn’t pronounce my real name, though, I promise you that.” The _laowai_ winked. “It’s close to Ah-Li, though.”

That settled it. The _laowai_ was crazy. “If you’re gonna watch the firestarters it’s better to do it from inside another building, rather than standing in the middle of the street. It’s not like everyone around here isn’t already staring at you, though.”  

The _laowai_ —Ah-Li—blinked at him. “They are?”

Spirits and gods and demons above, Peizhi was going to hell for this. He jerked his head towards the trio of mercs, who promptly turned their backs and melted into the crowd. “They were following you. Probably for a while.”

“Oh, I know,” Ah-Li said cheerfully. “I was wondering if they were actually going to do more than lurk. I was getting bored of pretending they weren’t there.”

Peizhi blinked. Then he blinked again, and muttered under his breath. Ah-Li cocked his head. “I don’t exactly know what _laowai_ means, but it doesn’t sound very friendly.”

Peizhi threw his hands in the air, and turned his back on the crazy _laowai_. He would come back to Hong’s Tavern later. There were other places in Xuanwu he could fish for firestarters. The _laowai_ , though, kept up with him, moving at an easy trot.

“Is there any particular reason _you’re_ watching a firestarter den?” he asked, and Peizhi snarled under his breath.

“None of your damn business.”

Ah-Li hummed. The bearcat scrabbled out of his hand and back up onto his shoulder, snarling at Peizhi. “What’s on your hand?”

“Nothing.” Peizhi averted his eyes. “Broke my hand.”

“Really? Because I heard a lot about a street kid named Peizhi from a friend of mine. She said the boy had a broken hand ‘cause a horse stepped on it, and a nomad saved him from getting his head broken in half.”

Peizhi shuddered to a stop. Ah-Li jogged past him, and then turned. “How the hell do you know that?” Peizhi said, in a low voice. Ah-Li shrugged.

“I have friends in high places. If you’re the same Peizhi, then we’re looking for the same thing.”

“Yeah?” Peizhi groped at his back, looking for the knife he’d stowed in his waistband that morning. He found nothing. Ah-Li spun Peizhi’s knife between his fingers, and then offered it to him, hilt first.

“You want to find the Firebrands,” said Ah-Li. “I want a way into their meetings. Either way, we’re looking for a hole in the wall. It’d probably be better if we worked together to find one.”

Peizhi snatched his blade back, and studied Ah-Li. He was taller than Peizhi had originally thought; he’d straightened, put his shoulders back. He seemed honest enough, at least. Peizhi hesitated, and then reached out through his senses, trying to find a hint of a lie. It wasn’t often that he could do it, but sometimes he could tell when someone was dangerous, or crazy, or lying. None of that was coming off Ah-Li. Of course, it might have just meant that his senses weren’t working at the moment.

The bearcat on Ah-Li’s shoulder sat back, and snorted.

“Crazy _laowai_ ,” he said under his breath, and shoved his knife back through his waistband. “What’s the use of me joining up with you? You stick out everywhere. Firestarters’d see you before we came within a mile of any of their haunts.”

“Yeah,” said Ah-Li happily, “but I can blow things up.”

Peizhi opened his mouth to respond, but then Ah-Li’s face changed. If he hadn’t watched it happen, he could have sworn that the _laowai_ had been wearing a mask. He reached forward, seized Peizhi by the shoulder, and yanked him behind the nearest box. Peizhi went to scream, but Ah-Li covered Peizhi’s mouth with one hand, and shook his head twice.

“Shh.”

His heart was pounding. Ah-Li searched his face, and then nodded, letting Peizhi go. Peizhi didn’t move. On Ah-Li’s shoulder, the little bearcat had gone totally quiet, but all its hair was standing on end. Animals, Peizhi thought faintly, were a _much_ better lightning rod for trouble than humans ever were.

Ah-Li said something in his own language, but this time Peizhi recognized something. _Feng._ He took a breath, and then peered over the top of the boxes that Ah-Li had dragged them behind. There was a man in a Qarashi headscarf standing in the middle of Whitewall Alley, glancing at a scrap of dirty paper in his hand. When he turned to glance down their alley, Peizhi took a sharp breath. It was one of the nobles who had visited Lady Ma, the first time Peizhi had woken up. He’d come a few times after that, too, when Peizhi had been able to lurk in different parts of the Bamboo Garden rooms. Aristocratic nose. Wide dark eyes. A pretty mouth. Sharply gorgeous, rather than traditionally handsome. Next to him, Ah-Li shifted

“You know him?” he asked, his funny greenish eyes sharp under his bad hat. Peizhi nodded slowly.

“He was in the palace.” He groped for the memory. “Lady Ma called him Feng. Xinzhe Feng,” he added, because he’d heard Niu Lu mutter to Lady Ma afterwards, and for some reason, the name had stuck in his craw. “He was there at the race when I fell.”

“Xinzhe,” Ah-Li repeated, as if to press it into his memory. He nodded, and then looked at Peizhi. “Ever run on rooftops?”

Peizhi shook his head. Ah-Li clapped his hands together, and pressed them to the wall of the closest building. There was a crackling, a snap of gravel and a snarl of stone, and then a ladder emerged from the building itself. Ah-Li turned to look over his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, and started up the ladder. “I’d rather not be obvious this time.”

Peizhi shook his head— _damn foreign alkahestrists_ —and followed Ah-Li up the stone ladder. 

* * *

Niu Lu was stitching a chrysanthemum in silk. Lan Fan watched her do it, the code crumpled in one hand. The needle was thin and sharp, made of Amestrian steel, and it flickered in between Niu Lu’s fingers like a small snake. The chrysanthemum was being done in red, darker than blood, lighter than wine, on a pure white background, and she wondered what it was going to be used for. “I can’t solve it,” she said, and folded the paper into her code book. “I don’t have the keyword. We’ve lost Sakari. And we’ve run out of time. Whatever’s going to happen is happening tomorrow, and I’m stuck in bed because of my damn  _shoulder_ .”

She wanted to throw something. She settled for slamming the book shut. Niu Lu had brought her her _kunai_ the moment she’d been allowed to have them, and even if her body was still too sore for her to wear her sheathes, she had four of them within easy reach of the mattress. Niu Lu herself was bristling with the number of knives she was carrying, and when she’d crouched earlier to collect her sewing kit, Lan Fan had spied a pistol tucked into the small of her back.

Niu Lu looked at her through her bangs, and then made another minute stitch in her chrysanthemum. “Well,” she said, “there’s not much you can do about that.”

Lan Fan scoffed. She knew Niu Lu was right, but it didn’t make her any less frustrated. She collected the codebooks into a pile, and without being asked, Niu Lu set her sewing down and shifted them all onto the low bookshelf. “Thank you,” she said, and Niu Lu shrugged before going back to her sewing. Since the capture of Sakari Kazuki, Niu Lu had been fairly AWOL; Lan Fan couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the woman sit in one place for more than five minutes before she’d wound up bedridden.

She bit her tongue. The Emperor had requested that the arrow not be thrown away, and so now it sat in two pieces beside her detached arm, headless and unassuming. Willow with eagle fletching. The combination was distinctive—you had to keep eagles in order to be able to collect enough feathers to fletch arrows with—but she couldn’t recall any of the Fifty Families using that particular combination. The Shadow—Peng, she corrected herself; Master Ling had told her the man’s name in low tones over breakfast yesterday morning—had killed a single assassin out there in the reeds, but two more had escaped. They’d been wearing black, and the one who’d been cut down had no identifying marks. He had, however, been wearing a Firebrand medallion.

Lan Fan’s flesh fingers went to her throat, but someone had taken the medallion off her for the healing, and she hadn’t yet managed to convince Niu Lu to give it back. This one had had the Firestarter name carved into the back. _Dushe._ Viper. His original name had been Li Guohua. She wondered if he had known Sakari Kazuki.

So, the Firebrands wanted to kill her. She shouldn’t have been surprised. After they’d captured Sakari Kazuki, she had wondered if that might not be the case. She had confirmation now, though, and that meant she had someone she could actively attack, or at least defend herself against. They had shown no hesitation in cutting down the Emperor in order to get to her, which made her skin crawl. He had been uninjured, but she wouldn’t forget how it had made her feel to see him covered in blood. Like everything was caving in, like she had been fractured into pieces. She wasn’t about to let it happen again.

Sakari had escaped the same day she’d been attacked. He’d killed a guard, stolen his uniform, and vaulted over the wall into Xuanwu, and no one had noticed him do it. Worse, no one knew where he’d gone. “I have a few people searching for his _qi_ signature, but it’s being blocked somehow,” the Commander had said, when he and Suyin had first been let into her sickroom. “You ought to stay on imperial grounds until you’re fully capable of defending yourself, in case he tries something. If he’s smart, he’ll have left Xinjing already, but he didn’t strike me as the type to be smart about things like that.”

Neither the Commander nor Suyin had been able to stay long. The Gathering was in full swing while she was stuck in the Peony Pavilion, and that meant no visitors during the day. To be honest, she didn’t mind that much. She didn’t like people seeing her injured; it made her feel like she was baring her belly to a blade, and she didn’t like it. (She rubbed the scar on her stomach where she’d once been stabbed, and grimaced.) The Fengs had been to visit twice since that first morning—Lien Hua on her own once, then Lien Hua with Xinzhe. Dong Mao hadn’t showed up at all after the first time. Mingli came by once an afternoon to work on her court etiquette. All in all, it was a much better recovery than some she’d had.

That didn’t mean she liked it.

“Niu Lu,” she said, and Niu Lu slowed in her embroidery. “Have you heard anything about the Firebrands since Sakari went missing?”

Niu Lu tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not in detail. There are rumors that more and more firestarters have been entering Xinjing City, but if there have been, our sources have seen none of them.”

Lan Fan blew out a breath. “What do we know of them? In Xinjing, I mean.”

Niu Lu went back to her embroidery. “There are four major enclaves of the Firebrands that we know about in the capitol city. Three of those four are in Xuanwu Ward, where the city’s poorest and most desperate linger. The vast majority of Firebrand recruits seem to be coming from the disenfranchised in society. I would not be surprised if Sakari Kazuki was not the only Nohin man or woman who now has a Firebrand name. Qarashi and ana-Qarashi, too, identify with the Letoists. The core of their philosophy, so far as I can tell, is centered around the sun god Leto; there were Letoists in the city even before Trener showed up, about four years ago, but a lot of them have just moved their allegiances to him, since he calls himself Leto’s son. Because of that, not a lot of converts have met Trener themselves. The movement’s grown much larger in the past few years, exponentially in fact, and a rough estimate of their numbers within Xinjing itself would be over ten thousand.”

She swallowed hard. “A rough estimate? Are you over- or underestimating?”

“Underestimating,” Niu Lu said. “Considering the city has a population of a little under a million people, according to the most recent census records, it seems rather insignificant, but ten thousand men can do a lot of damage in a very small amount of time, if they set their minds to it.”

Her heart was pounding. Her shoulder ached. “What about in Feng-guo?”

“We have no sources within Feng-guo itself to give us any indication of the size of the Firebrand population within its borders.” Niu Lu gave her a look that was almost pointed, as if to say, _That’s your job._ “Since Feng-guo was the only country in Xing to accept Letoists when they first began filtering in, about eight years ago, Trener and his band migrated there, and began building themselves a cult. Judging from what few reports we do have, their numbers are at least thirty-thousand, probably more. But you have to remember that many of these men and women would not have ever met Trener, or been to his hideaway, wherever it is. First of all, Trener hasn’t left his village since he built it. Most of the conversions are from convert-to-convert, not father-to-convert. The Firebrands offer free meals and prayer to those who will join their numbers, and in some parts of Feng-guo, that’s more than the empire has ever done for them. Of course they’d be loyal. Other converts are from before Trener ever arrived in Xing,”

Lan Fan thought of Sakari Kazuki, of his missing teeth and his vicious Nohinra. The assassin at the Chang party loomed in her mind’s eye. _Why kill the Fengs?_ she’d asked him, and he’d replied so quickly. _Why kill to save them?_ _You don’t know what’s right, little one._

She looked down into her lap.

“Feng-guo is prosperous on the coast, but its interior is made up mostly of marshes and arid earth. Farming is difficult there, and they have to import a lot of the goods the rest of Xing takes for granted. During the reign of the Retired Emperor there was a number of tax revolts. The First Governor levied a number of taxes, approved by the Tea Leaf Emperor, that drove the vast majority of Feng villages into poverty. Coupling that with the horde of refugees from Qarash and nomadic lands, and the floods from the south, not many in Feng-guo are happy at the moment.”

“They want revenge against the ruling family,” said Lan Fan.

“It’s not unjustified.” Niu Lu lifted her embroidery to her lips, and bit through the string. “After Feng-guo, the capitol city is the largest gathering of Firebrands in the entirety of Xing. If Feng country explodes, I don’t want to think what will happen here.”

“Lien Hua told me that the Fires of God believed that the world is coming to an end.” She rubbed the muscle under the hole in her shoulder. “That they think the empire is too corrupt, and if they don’t eliminate those parts of it, the whole country will be decimated by Leto.”

Niu Lu, who had been threading a new needle, paused and looked at her. “It explains Sakari’s unwillingness to talk. That philosophy would have come from Amestris along with Trener, if the stories we’ve heard about him are correct. If Sakari had been personally converted by Trener, then he’d believe in them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought of us as demons come to hunt him, if that were the case.”

_Are you a Feng dog? Or are you a devil’s bitch?_

“If they _were_ trying to kill you, Lady Ma, then they’ll probably try again.” Niu Lu studied her embroidery for a second or two, and then began to outline the red petals in silver thread. “It’s no wonder His Majesty appointed you a guard.”

“I don’t need a guard,” Lan Fan snapped. “I’ve taken care of myself for over a decade. I don’t need a babysitter just because I managed to get myself shot. I—”

There was a burst of warning _qi_ from Gen Chang. Lan Fan seized her notebook and shoved it deep under her pillow before settling herself back against the wall. A second later, the doors opened, and Chang intoned, “The Princess Feng approaches.”

Lien Hua Feng was resplendent in silver, her hair caught up into an intricate twist at the back of her head. Jade dangled from her ears and her wrists. “The rumors weren’t fake, then,” she said without preamble, after Gen Chang had bowed her in and shut the door. “The guard really _is_ sticking around with you.”

Lan Fan sucked her teeth. “Good morning, Lien Hua.”

“Hello, swallow-girl. You look like hell. I came by to see if you were finished with _Tomiko’s Letters_ yet. You were almost through with it yesterday. Besides, if I have to stay one minute longer glued to Aiguo Cao, I’m going to rake his eyes out.”

Niu Lu bobbed her head, and scuttled out of the room. Lan Fan watched her go with a feeling rather like defeat. “You never said what happened the night the Gathering opened,” she said, as Lien Hua settled into Niu Lu’s chair and folded her hands in her lap. “I heard from Commander Shan that there was a fight in the gardens.”

Lien Hua scoffed. “That wasn’t a fight. That was Aiguo Cao trying to force himself on me and me stopping him. He’s an idiot to think that he has any right to any bit of me. I broke his nose and his brother tried to hold me back. Both of them have been too scared to be alone with me since.”

She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to snarl or laugh hysterically. “I’ll kill him.”

“Xinzhe already tried. I don’t need you fighting for me too, swallow-girl.” Before she could protest, Lien Hua leaned forward and propped her chin in one hand. “I wouldn’t have visited with them today if it hadn’t been for the Gathering. Today was the formalization of my engagement to him. I expect I’ll be getting a Cao phoenix on my face soon enough.”

Lan Fan bit her tongue. “But if he—if he tried to make you do that, why would you marry him? Why not write to your uncle? If you say something—”

“Oh, little swallow. No wonder you made the Empress Bitch blow her top. You really have no idea how politics work, do you?” She reached forward, and patted Lan Fan’s cheek, her nails scraping across Lan Fan’s skin. “If I marry him, then our families will remain peaceful. Our alliance is safe for another generation. Once I’m pregnant, it doesn’t matter what happens to Aiguo Cao. You can do whatever you like to him when that happens. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hunting accident once the pregnancy was confirmed.”

Lan Fan swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“I’m not forgiving him for what he tried, Feiyan,” said Lien Hua, suddenly sober again. “It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it. The boy is a boil on the ass of a macaque, but he’s useful to me for the next eight months. I’ll just have to make sure that for those eight months, he’s too terrified of me to sleep.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say. Lan Fan bit her tongue, and said nothing instead. Lien Hua patted her wrist absent-mindedly, her eyes roving over the room Lan Fan had been forced into. “My cousin doesn’t do thing by halves, does he?” she said after a moment, settling on a lacquer inlay of a magnificent pine tree. “If he was going to declare he’s courting you, he could have done it in some way other than trapping you in his rooms and not letting you leave.”

Lan Fan flushed so badly she could feel her face pounding with her heartbeat. “That’s—” Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. “He’s not. Courting me. I mean. He’s—no. He’s not.”

Lien Hua hummed. “Really? That’s not what the rest of the palace says.”

“The rest of the court is wrong.” She lowered her eyes to the bedspread, and bit back what she wanted to say. _Why would he court someone like me? I’m crippled. I’m no one. I’m nothing._ He just…I don’t know. He wanted to make sure I was all right, that’s all.”

“And to do that he needed to put you in the Sunset Room?” Lien Hua rolled her eyes. “Please. If I were you—”

“You’re his si—cousin.” Lan Fan wrinkled her nose. “And why does it matter to you so much?”

“Do you realize what a coup it would be for Xing if a nomadic princess was the first woman in the whole court to enchant the Dawn Emperor? It could change the whole dynamic of the palace. Not to mention that it might push that bitch of a Yao out of the Empress’ seat.” Her mouth twisted. “Which would be better for everyone, I’m sure.”

Lan Fan frowned. “Why do you Feng hate the Empress so much? She’s not particularly…” She groped for a word. “Agreeable, maybe, but…”

“‘You Feng?’”

She bit her tongue. “Xinzhe said something.”

Lien Hua blew out a long, slow breath. “How drunk was he?”

Lan Fan thought of the Sprout Garden rooms, the spark of _qi_ from Mingli and Xinzhe, the joining of shadows. She thought of the opening of the Gathering, and Xinzhe pulling her close, his breath hot on her cheek. _I hate her. I hate her more than anything._ “I don’t know,” she said, finally. “Not much, then.”

Lien Hua interlaced her fingers, and said nothing. She didn’t seem to be quite able to meet Lan Fan’s eyes. Lan Fan was about to reach out to her when Chang let out another burst of _qi_ , and called out, “The Princess Chang approaches.”

Princess Mei Chang burst through the doors with a slam, startling Lien Hua out of her chair and making Lan Fan jump so badly that she twisted her shoulder. Mei paused on the threshold, her eyes skittering from Lien Hua, whose cheeks were flushed with temper, to Lan Fan, who was clutching her aching shoulder, to Niu Lu, who had followed Mei in with a little bob of the head. Then she sniffed, and brushed a braid back over her shoulder. “Good morning, Lady Ma,” she said, and waved a hand. A gaggle of maidservants rolled in a large black chalkboard inscribed with alkahestrical circles, and settled it against the far wall. “I came to see how you’re getting on.”

Lan Fan bowed her head. Her tongue was twisted into knots. “Y-Your Highness. I didn’t know you were—”

“Coming?” said Princess Chang cheerily, one eyebrow arching, and she marched forward. Xiao Mei was perched on her shoulder, and when she caught Lien Hua’s scent, she bared her teeth and spat. “I know. Take off your shirt.”

Lien Hua drew herself up, her hands smooth and elegant and still. “Cousin,” she said, sweetly. “I wasn’t aware you had been assigned to be Lady Ma’s healer.”

Lan Fan paused in the middle of shrugging off the silk jacket, looking from Mei to Lien Hua and back again. Princess Chang paused, her mouth tightening. She bared her teeth in a smile.

“Lien Hua,” she said. “ _Cousin_. How fortuitous. I thought I caught your perfume out in the hallway. I wasn’t sure if you were lurking for scraps or if you’d actually been brave enough to brownnose in person. I see that it was the latter.”

Lightning seemed to crackle in the air. Lan Fan winced. “Princess Chang,” she said, and Mei snapped a look at her, her mouth twisting even further. “L—Princess Feng is my guest.”

Princess Chang sniffed. “And you, as much as it pains me to say, are my patient. Give me your hand.” She seized it before Lan Fan could even twitch. “Cousin, you may stay if you stay quiet and keep out of the way. One word out of you, and I throw you out. Do you understand?”

Lien Hua sucked her teeth, and sat down sharply. Her nails were digging into her knees. She nodded. Princess Chang turned Lan Fan’s hand over, pressing two fingers to her wrist. She didn’t meet Lan Fan’s eyes. Her alkahestry braids hung heavy over her shoulders, four on each side. Xiao Mei gave Lan Fan a look, and then scooted down Princess Chang’s arm to curl up in Lan Fan’s lap, resting its chin against Lan Fan’s knee.

Lan Fan stared. Princess Chang made a note, unperturbed. “Any itching?” she asked, circling around to the other side of the bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Pain? Swelling?”

“It hurts,” said Lan Fan, “but not more than it should. My headache’s gone.”

Princess Chang reached out and set her fingers against Lan Fan’s neck, a little further up than her pulse point. “Your nodes are doing better,” she said after a moment, and then went to work on Lan Fan’s bandages. She could hear the gauze crackling as it peeled away from her skin. “We’ve deconstructed the poison that was used,” said Princess Chang, in a low voice. “It was a combination of red spider lily, the poison of a Feng-guo tree-viper—” she gave Lien Hua a vicious look “—and another venom, from the black scorpions in the northern deserts. It’s hard to get a hold of, and very rare in this part of Xing; it’s why it took us so long to identify it.”

Lan Fan nodded, and said nothing. The last bit of gauze came away with a tearing sound. If she looked down, she could see the scarring and the metal from when she’d lost her arm; the arrow had left a small neat hole just beneath her collarbone, big enough to stick her ring finger through. It was healing; the flesh around it was red and swollen, but it wasn’t stretched tight, and there was no threads of infection. Princess Chang pushed hard against her shoulder blade, and Lan Fan made a sharp sound. “Sorry,” said Princess Chang, without sounding sorry in the slightest. “The muscle’s healing well. If you like I can close the wound. It’ll hurt for at least a week as it heals, and you’ll be _very careful_ in how you use that metal contraption of yours, but at least I’ll be able to let you off bed rest.”

Something brushed against the small of her back. It felt like paper. Princess Chang slid something under the pillow at her hip, and then returned to her shoulder. Lan Fan nodded. In her lap, the bearcat made a sound that might have been a purr, and then crawled over her ankles to curl up on the end of the bed. Mei stepped away from the bed, and drew her blades. “Stand over there,” she said, gesturing to the chalkboard that had been brought in with her. “And hold still.”

She kicked the covers back. Lan Fan stood slowly, waiting for her knees to wobble, her ankles to give way, but when nothing happened, she straightened. On the other side of the bed, Lien Hua was watching them with a sharp look on her face; she twined a lock of hair around her fingers. Niu Lu was stitching. Lan Fan put her back to the chalkboard, and then tilted her head out of the way, bearing her jugular. She closed her eyes.

Princess Chang threw her knives.

She’d learned a long time ago that different parts of the body felt different when they were being healed through alkahestry. It depended on the person, their _qi_ networks, their relative state of fitness, the injury itself, and how comfortable they were with the process of healing, not to mention the choices of the healer themselves. She grit her teeth against the stinging (she was certain that Princess Chang had to be doing that on purpose; it was too amateurish a mistake to not be deliberate) and in three breaths, it was over. There was a piercing ache in her shoulder, but the hole was gone, and not a single mark remained.

She brushed the fresh skin with tentative fingers, and bowed her head. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said in a low voice, and bowed to Princess Chang. “I owe you my life.”

Mei went to the bed and scooped up Xiao Mei, settling the bearcat on her shoulder again. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “Thank His Majesty. For some reason you matter to him.” She gave Lan Fan a considering look. “I don’t know if you’re a temporary toy or something more than that, Lady Ma, but the Emperor likes you. Be careful how you step. If you slip, they’ll eat you alive.” She inclined her head to Lien Hua, murmured “Cousin,” and then left the room without another word.

As soon as Princess Chang was out of earshot, Lien Hua let out a hissing breath. “Spirits. I don’t remember the little Princess Chang being that much of a self-righteous bitch.” She came around the bed, and reached out with one hand, pausing right before she touched Lan Fan’s skin. “How is it?”

“Hurts.” Lan Fan set her palm on the table where her arm waited. “Less than before, though.”

Lien Hua brushed her fingertip down the plating of the upper arm. “I never realized how far up it went,” she said. “I knew it attached at the shoulder, but I didn’t…think.” She looked at Lan Fan. “What happened?”

“It was a Minari attack when I was fifteen. We were escorting an Amestrian at the time, and he offered to build me a new arm in return for saving his life.” She set her hand on the wrist, and thought of Amestris. The blade of Fuhrer King Bradley, the jarring of the sword against her _kunai_ , the way the shards of ceramic had sliced against her cheek as her mask had shattered. Master Ling, his shoulder digging into her stomach, his arm tight around her legs. The scent of blood and sewers. _Lan Fan, stop!_   “I went with him to the nearest border town. He designed it himself, and taught me how to take care of it.”

“Does it feel?”

“Only a little.” She pointed to the nerve wiring. “Those are connected into my shoulder. I can’t discern textures, but I can tell if I’m touching something. I can feel temperature, if it’s hot or cold enough.” She glanced at Lien Hua. “I’m going to need both of you to help me get it back in.”

Lien Hua went pale. “You mean…you mean put it back on?”

“No,” she said, and put a hand to her empty shoulder socket. “I mean put it back _in_. I can tell you what to do. I just can’t do it by myself.” She licked her lips. “I need help, and…and I’d rather not ask anyone else.”

Something flickered in Lien Hua’s face. Then her mouth thinned, and she stood up a little straighter. Her hands were steady. “Tell me what I need to do.”

The mechanic who had developed her arm had been named Brock. He and his twelve-year-old daughter had lived in a small apartment above their automail shop in Rush Valley; when he heard that she and Fuu were staying in a hotel on the other side of town, he’d insisted that they stay until Lan Fan’s arm was healed to his satisfaction. Hans Brock was deceptively small and slight, deeply tanned and with a thatch of hair so blonde it was nearly white. Lan Fan had shared a bedroom with his daughter Drea, a dark-haired, dark-eyed waif who had demanded that Lan Fan teach her about Xing. The last night they’d been there, Brock had pulled her aside and pushed a heavy leather case into her hands. She had tried to give it back—there was no way she and her grandfather would have ever been able to pay back everything the Brocks had done for them, after all—but he’d shaken his head.

“My wife was from Xing,” he said. He curled her fingers over the case, metal and flesh alike. “There’re many great things about your country, Lan Fan, but it’s not particularly known for its automail. You won’t be able to find these anywhere else, and you’ll need them. Besides,” he added, and smiled. “I owe the girl who taught my daughter about her mother’s country. Please take it.”

“Mr. Brock—”

“Please,” he said. He hadn’t said anything else. Lan Fan took the bag, slinging it over her flesh shoulde (her automail was still sore, then, and she hadn’t wanted to test it all that much). Brock had looked at her, and then at Fuu, and added, “Whatever you two are running towards, I hope you’ll be able to come back and visit someday. We’ll miss you.”

She’d had to bow to hide her tears. “ _Xie xie_ ,” she’d said, staring at the hardwood floor. Her eyes had stung. “ _Xie xie, lao shi._ ” _Thank you. Thank you, teacher._

She’d brought the kit all the way across the desert, along with a bottle of automailers’ oil. The oil had run out more than two years ago, but the kit was still pristine. It had been one of the first things Niu Lu had brought over from her kitchen garden rooms, a roll of cracked, dark-brown leather tied up with a braid of three ribbons. She undid the knot, and rolled the case open, careful not to upset the glass with the screws inside. “Lien Hua, you’ll take this,” she said, and handed her the levering wrench. “Niu Lu, can you bring the table over by the bed? I need to lie flat while we do this.”

Lien Hua looked slightly shaky as she took the levering wrench. It was welded at a sharp right angle, heavy enough to brain a man, and it looked very out of place in her pale hands with the Feng green fingernails. As Niu Lu went to collect the table, Lan Fan turned, and peeled the silk jacket off. “The arm connects at seven points,” she said. “Each of the wire bundles goes into one of these holes, here—” she gestured, and Lien Hua leaned forward to see better “—and the main part of the shoulder is a ball-and-socket joint. The ball of the arm goes in here.” She set her fingers in the main depression, a deep spherical hole with a chunk of metal carved out at the top, where the arm itself slotted inside. “You and Niu Lu are going to have to put the ball-and-socket back together after settling all the nerves back in with these threaders, but it’s not going to fit perfectly. Do you understand?”

Lien Hua nodded, her hands tight on the wrench. “I have to push it in.”

“There’s a part of the upper arm that folds away, and inside there’s a catch where you can put the wrench.” Niu Lu had dragged the table over. Lan Fan collected the threaders and pressed them into the maid’s hand before dropping onto the bed and unhooking the iron plate where the levering wrench slid inside. The inside of the arm was a nest of gears and wires and screws, and she let Lien Hua study it for a few breaths before she spoke again. “The arrow didn’t hit any of the nerve connections, artificial or otherwise, which is good, but it did tear a number of muscles in my shoulder and under my collarbone.” She swallowed. “Which probably means I’ll scream when you lever it into place. You can’t stop, though, because if you quit levering halfway through, the arm will be stuck, and it’ll hurt pretty badly.” And she’d need an actual automail engineer to get it out again, but she didn’t have one of those, and she didn’t have the time to send for one, either. “So once you lever it in, you have to push as hard as you can until you hear it snap. Niu Lu will be pushing from the other side to make sure all the nerves connect.” She studied Lien Hua’s face. “If you don’t think you’re strong enough, I can ask the guardsman in.”

“I’ve studied martial arts since I was three years old,” said Lien Hua. There was a snap to her voice that almost sounded like pride. “I’m strong enough.”

Lan Fan went to crack her flesh knuckles, and then realized she couldn’t. Her hand fell uselessly back to her lap again. “Once it’s in, all you have to do is use the screwdriver to tighten it down, and roll the plates here—” she touched the socket again “—back into place. They’re only an inch and a half long, so don’t tug on them once they’ve fully extended. _Don’t_ touch the elbow joints when you’re doing it. There’s a hair trigger for a blade in the forearm, and if you set it off, you could impale yourself.”

“Spirits, swallow-girl,” said Lien Hua. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’d rather not.” Lan Fan smiled wanly. “Minari, on the other hand, are always on my watchlist.”

Lien Hua drew a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a moment. “All right. How do I thread the nerves?”

“I have to lay down first.”

There were six wires to each bundle, and seven bundles to set up. There was a little shock that jolted through the flesh of her shoulder each time a wire slid into place, almost like static electricity inside her muscles. It was irritating work, since the threaders were made of treacherously thin metal, and the wires liked to bend in ways that shouldn’t have been physically possible, but each time one connected, Lien Hua gave a little hum of triumph. Niu Lu simply watched, carefully, passing Lien Hua the tools as necessary—threader, tweezers, threader again, pliers to tighten down the socket around the wires. It took a good forty-five minutes to get the wires all connected, and when it was done, Lien Hua’s face was flushed and sweaty with triumph.

Gen Chang had come in to watch at the third bundle of nerve wiring. She was surprised he hadn’t knocked earlier, to be honest; the first wire had had such a tremendous shock that Lan Fan had let out a yelp that would have been audible through three walls, let alone a single set of thin lattice doors. She hadn’t mentioned their audience to Lien Hua, and honestly she wasn’t sure if anyone other than her had even noticed.

“Can you feel it?” Lien Hua asked, but Lan Fan shook her head.

“The wires are only in the right tubes, they’re not actually fully connected.” She shifed her shoulder, very slowly, but she ended up tugging one of the wires anyway. Another shock of electricity rippled through her tender muscles. “When you lever the arm in, the wires will be pushed forward and make the connection with the nerves inside. Like plugging in a lamp.”

Lien Hua’s eyes were sparking. “It’s fascinating. Alkahestry is too advanced to require prosthetics in most cases, but limbs like this could be a tremendous asset if they’re weaponized. Even if you don’t, though, it’s an amazing piece of machinery. A combination of anatomy and engineering.” She tapped her fingernails against Lan Fan’s metal forearm. “If it wouldn’t leave you lame, I’d steal your arm and take it apart to see how everything worked. Would it be possible for you to summon the Amestrian who did this to Xing so I can ask him how it all works?”

“Probably not. I only know his name, not where he lives or where he was going.” Lan Fan leaned back into the pillow, and let out a short breath. “You need to use the lever wrench now. This is…uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” Lien Hua fumbled for the wrench, and slid it home. Lan Fan heard a clunk that meant it had slotted into place, and grit her teeth. “Niu Lu,” said Lien Hua, and then hands were bracing against Lan Fan’s flesh shoulder and her hip. “You ready?”

“Mm.”

“On three then.” Lien Hua took a deep breath, and swallowed. “One.”

Lien Hua slammed herself against the levering wrench, pressing down with every pound in her body. The ball of the arm slammed into the socket, and there was a loud click that made her teeth rattle in her skull. Lan Fan bit her tongue, but the scream burst out of her anyway, high and reedy. Niu Lu’s fingernails dug into her ribcage. There was another crackling click, and then finally the snap like breaking bone that meant the arm was back in place. Her whole shoulder throbbed. She could taste blood on her tongue. Lien Hua let go of the levering wrench, leaning back in her chair, and studied the arm, her head cocked slightly to one side. Lan Fan turned her head.

“You did it,” she said, and Lien Hua grinned. For the first time since Lan Fan could remember, she could see the resemblance between the Feng daughter and the Yao son. That smile was Master Ling’s, all over, and she stared for a moment before she remembered herself. Lien Hua hadn’t noticed.

“I did, didn’t I?” She hummed happily under her breath, and then grabbed the screwdriver. “Niu Lu, get the cup, please. Once this is done, swallow-girl, we can take you to the baths. You smell like a sewer.”

Lan Fan set a hand over her eyes, and laughed.

* * *

 

Lien Hua had to rush off to a Gathering meeting after helping Lan Fan wash her hair, so after a long, luxurious bath by herself (in the bathing chambers of the Peony Pavilion, no less—Lan Fan would have gone to the Jasmine Bathhouse, but Lien Hua had insisted—she returned to the Sunset Room with clean hair, fresh clothes, and two working arms. Her cryptography work was still tucked under the bed. She left it there; she was more interested in the note that Princess Chang had left in her pillows. It was small, folded even smaller, and it took her a few precious minutes to finally dig it free of the blankets. When she opened it, though, it wasn’t Mei’s neat calligraphy that greeted her, but Al’s loopy Amestrian. She had to focus very hard to read it; she’d never been good with written Amestrian.

_Black scorpion venom shipped into three apothecaries in Xinjing. Trade records show one purchase was made six months ago by a Nohin man with his front teeth missing. Nohin man came in three weeks ago with a girl with cat’s eyes and needle-teeth._

“Alphonse Elric,” she said between gritted teeth, and fed the note to the nearest candleflame. She _distinctly_ remembered informing that blonde menace that if he came near this investigation she’d send him back to Amestris herself. Her guts were twisting into knots. If her stupidity wound up getting Al killed, she would never forgive herself. Never.

There was a crackle of _qi_ from Chang, and another, smaller signature. Lilies and gunpowder. Lan Fan blinked in surprise—it wasn’t a signature she recognized—and then choked on her own tongue when Chang called, in a reedy voice, “The Dowager Empress approaches.” called, and then bowed deeply and backed away from the main door.

There was no time. Lan Fan seized her kunai and her notebook and shoved them deep under the pillow, wincing when she heard something rip. She didn’t have time to think. She just barely had enough seconds together to button up her deel and bow before Huian Yao had swept into the room, bearing the strong scent of orange blossoms along with her. There was a cluster of maids bobbing in her footsteps, their heads lowered. Lan Fan recognized all of them, a mixture of Zhao and Yao daughters who had been brought to the palace in an effort to bolster the court with fresh blood. They all looked insipid.

“Leave us,” said the Empress, and as one, the troop of maids backed out, and the lattice door shut behind them. There was a moment of pure silence. Then: “Lady Ma.” Her voice was smooth and courteous. Lan Fan wondered how much she was holding back. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Huian Yao sounded cordial without wanting something. “You seem much improved than the last time I saw you.”

“My lady Empress,” said Lan Fan. She didn’t lift her head. Instead, she measured her breaths, and tried to stop her heart from leaping out of her throat. She could count the number of times she had seen Huian Yao before the Dawn Emperor had been crowned on one hand, and never without a mask; nor could the Empress sense her _qi._ There was no way the Dowager Empress would be able to out her as a spy. Still, her pulse was thundering in her ears. Huian Yao didn’t just _visit_ people, especially not people like Feiyan Ma. “I…I was not aware that you had deigned to bless me with your presence before today.”

“When word came to me that my son the Emperor had galloped into the stables on a prize warhorse, covered in blood and carrying an injured nomad, naturally I was interested.” The Empress’ toenails were painted gold. Lan Fan wondered how long it had taken to ink in the little oak leaf on the big toe. “Oh, raise your head, girl. I’m not going to cut it off.”

Lan Fan kept her eyes on her knees for a few seconds more before daring to raise her eyes to Huian Yao’s skirts. They were embroidered with the Empress’s phoenix. She cleared her throat.

“To what do I owe the honor of your condescension, Imperial Majesty?” said Lan Fan, her voice cracking a little at the end. The Empress Dowager dropped down into the chair that Lien Huahad left behind, and set her hands delicately in her lap.

“I hear that it is you I have to thank for my son’s continued health and prosperity,” said Huian. Her voice was clear and soothing. “He tells me you saved his life out in the reeds, and took an arrow meant for him. As you might understand, this means a great deal to me.”

The Empress hummed, and put the paper down again. Lan Fan had to force herself not to look at it. Instead, she lowered her eyes again, and said, “It was my honor to defend His Imperial Majesty.”

Huian Yao hummed. “I see.” Her fingernails, Lan Fan noticed, weren’t gold but Yao green, and on her ring and pinkie fingers of her right hand, she wore long golden talons that ended in sharp points. Lan Fan wondered how much poison was in the tip of each one. “It seems that I was wrong in my attempts to have you banished. If I’d succeeded, then my son would be dead now.” She paused. “I owe you for that, Feiyan Ma.”

Lan Fan’s mouth was papery dry. _Banished?_ She hadn’t even been aware that she was _going_ to be punished for what had happened in the meeting with the Song matriarch. “You have my eternal gratitude, Imperial Majesty, for your everlasting kindness and benevolence.”

“Feiyan Ma, if you continue to be so obsequious, I will have your tongue ripped out,” said the Empress sweetly. Two cool, dry fingertips brushed Lan Fan’s chin, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek until she bled to keep herself from flinching. Empress Yao tilted Lan Fan’s face up, and Lan Fan kept very still, cringing at the dishonor that was meeting the Empress’ eyes, but too intimidated by what the retribution would be if she broke the gaze.

The first time she’d seen her master’s mother, she’d been twelve, hot and uncomfortable in bandages and uniform. Her mask had been the only cool part of her, chilly against her cheeks. She’d barely noticed then how similar the two of them looked. Master Ling shared many traits with his father—his mouth, his ears, his hands—but he shared even more with his mother, the woman who had been half-Yao, half-Zhao, who had been adopted into Master Ling’s family as a toddler, whose blood had been mixed with that of the Yao at her claiming ceremony. They had the same overall facial structure, the same thick hair, the same mouth. The way Master Ling pursed his lips when he was thinking was Huian Yao all over, and it was eerie to see that look on the Empress’ face. But where Huian had Zhao eyes, wide and glassy, Master Ling had Yao eyes, thin and expressive. She liked Yao eyes better.

“So,” said Huian. “This is the face that tempted my son out of celibacy.”

She felt the blush building in her collarbone, creeping up her throat, and flaring into her cheeks like a firework. Lan Fan licked her lips. “Imperial Majesty.” Her voice was hoarse. “Please believe me, I would never—”

“Oh, please.” Huian Yao scoffed. Her fingers tightened on Lan Fan’s chin. “If you’re going to fuck my son, nomad, then at least be brave enough to own up to it. This fake shyness of yours only insults you.”

Her face was burning. She couldn’t think. Lan Fan swallowed hard. “I’m not lying, majesty,” she said very quietly, almost too quietly to hear. “I have never touched the Emperor. I swear it on my life. I swear it on my mother’s life. I would never dare.”

Huian searched Lan Fan’s eyes. Whatever she found there, it made her nose wrinkle, made her mouth twist. She shoved Lan Fan back onto the bed, sharply, and Lan Fan didn’t resist. “Whatever you may be, nomad, you’re not a liar. You don’t have the face for it.”

Lan Fan squeezed her eyes shut. Her body was a cacophony—pain from her shoulder, shame from her guts, fury from her belly, and worst of all, humiliation curling in long twining tendrils from a spot just under her heart. Her eyes were burning. _A Huo does not cry_ , she told herself, and raised her gaze to the Empress, licking the blood off her teeth. _A Huo does not cry._

“There it is,” said Huian, and reached out, brushing the backs of her fingernails against Lan Fan’s cheek. Lan Fan refused to flinch. “That wretched streak of bumpkin pride. I’ve been wondering what it looked like, and now I know. It’s no better than the rest of your filthy, backwards, inbred nation.” Huian bared her teeth, and dug her nails into skin, raking a bloody trail down Lan Fan’s jaw. Lan Fan held the gaze, grinding her teeth, saying nothing. Instinct screamed at her to attack. Common sense kept her hands clenched around the bedspread.

Huian leaned forward. Her breath was flavored with persimmons. “You,” she hissed, “are _nothing_. There are girls who work in the laundry rooms that have better bloodlines than you. You are worth less than the silks you wear. You are a _disease._ ”

Blood ran down her throat. Lan Fan sat, and stared. Huian wiped her fingernails clean of blood on the front of Lan Fan’s deel, and then tucked her hands into her sleeves.

“Now,” she said. “I have been playing this game a lot longer and a lot better than you, horsewife. Believe me when I say that if you give me reason, I can kill you in less time and with less effort than it takes to lift a finger. But since you saved the Emperor’s life, I owe you one warning. It’s all you will ever get from me.” She leaned forward, and set her lips to Lan Fan’s ear. “You get your hooks out of my son, or I will rip you apart.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Huian Yao turned on her heel and marched out of the Sunset Room, her head held high, her court mask smooth and perfect. The door swung shut behind her with a soft click. Out in the hall, there was a sputtering of voices, and then nothing. Silence.

Lan Fan couldn’t move. The cuts on her cheek stung. She couldn’t unfist her hands from the blankets. All she could do was breathe, in and out. _A Huo does not cry,_ she thought to herself, and then she swallowed hard.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she’d been telling the truth; that she knew, the way that no one else did, that the Emperor wasn’t courting her, could never court her, _would_ never court her. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t actually Feiyan Ma, that this whole fiasco had been a farce from beginning to end, that the only reason she was sitting here, in this room, in these clothes, was because her master had asked for her help, and she’d given it without question.

Huian Yao’s opinions mattered. The court’s opinions mattered. Lan Fan Huo had never been courted by the Emperor, she thought dully, leaning forward, letting her hair, still wet from the baths, swing forward in front of her bloody, stinging face. But Feiyan Ma had. She couldn’t hide from that fact any longer. The Dawn Emperor, Ling Yao, the Son of Heaven, her master, had been courting her pseudonym, and she had been too stubborn to let herself see it.

Logically, she understood it. Being given the opportunity to become one of the Lotus Hall would have given her room to maneuver. She would have had special dispensation to speak to him in a way she hadn’t before. She would have had greater power within the court, could get information more easily. She would have been perfect bait for the Feng, who were working against her master, and might see her—young, inexperienced, unnerved—as a way in. It had been a tactic for their endgame—their goal of understanding the Feng agenda—just as everything else was. It never would have been anything more than that, and she wouldn’t have wanted it to be. She knew her place, knew who she was, and what she was worth; she hadn’t needed the Empress to tell her that much. She _knew_.

So why was she so tangled up inside?

Slowly, she uncurled her flesh hand from the blanket, ignoring the ache in her fingers, and brushed her thumb over one of the cuts on her cheek. If she wasn’t careful, it would stain her deel. Lan Fan pushed herself off the bed, and went to the mirror on the wall. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Three cuts, the longest from just by her ear to the point of her jaw. They weren’t deep, but they were bleeding freely. She tugged a handkerchief out from under a hairbrush, dipped it into the pool of rosewater on the table, and wiped it clean before pressing hard. She barely felt it. _A Huo does not cry._

She hadn’t forgotten who she was. She had never been bold enough to do that. Somehow, along the way, she had simply misplaced her memory of the stakes of this fight they were in.

She couldn’t obey the Empress. She’d never planned to. She had sworn her loyalty to               one person on the planet, and it wasn’t Huian Yao. Lan Fan rinsed the handkerchief as best she could, and in the tureen, the water turned pink. All this meant was that from now on, she wouldn’t allow herself to be distracted. Lan Fan licked her lips, and made herself study her reflection. Big eyes, pupils blown wide from temper and panic, with dark splotches beneath, like fingerprints. A sharp nose. Round cheeks. A mouth that was too thin. Shaggy black hair, still dripping wet, plastered to her jaw. She combed it back with her fingers, and twisted it up into a bun, which she pierced through with one of the emeici she’d stolen from the assassin at the Chang party. The cuts on her cheek were still bleeding. She pressed the folded handkerchief to them, and licked her lips. “Chang,” she said, “I need you.”

He came within seconds. In the reflection from the mirror, she saw him stop dead at the sight of her face. “Lady Ma, are you—”

“I’m fine.” She peeled the handkerchief away again, and set it aside. Lan Fan went to the bed, and methodically began to remove all her kunai from where she’d stashed them, beneath the mattress, under the pillows, behind the headboard. She slid them home in the sheaths she had strapped to her body—one on each wrist, one on each thigh. The one in the small of her back had to be left empty—she only had four knives in this room—and it left her feeling hollow. Chang watched her do it. “Where’s Niu Lu?”

“She said she was going to the kitchens to see if she could find something to eat.” Chang tapped the hilt of his sword with his forefinger. “Lady Ma, are you sure you’re—”

“I’m fine.” She could still taste blood in her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue harder than she’d meant to. “Where’s His Majesty?”

“In the Gathering hall, my lady.”

Lan Fan went down on her hands and knees, and reached deep under the bed for the burlap sack she’d begged Niu Lu to bring her in the dead of night. Without a word, she unbuttoned her deel, and Chang turned his back hastily. She could practically hear him blushing. “My lady, what—”

“We’re going hunting, Chang,” she said, and shimmied out of the deel, letting it fall to the floor. In its place, she pulled on her makeshift uniform—a black tangzhuang, dark trousers, black shoes, and the patterned mask she’d bought on her way to met Al Elric in the peach grove, a dancing dragon painted in slate blue on a background of pale cream. She fixed it behind her ears, and wondered why wearing it hurt more than healed. “There are some men in Xinjing who seem to want me dead. It’s about time I found out why.”

Chang turned back around, and studied her. There was something tight in his face she didn’t remember being there before. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll change,” he said in a quiet voice. “Give me a minute.”

“You have five before I leave without you,” she said, and then she swung out of the window, and scrambled up onto the roof. It was only once she’d settled herself behind a gargoyle of a lion-dog and clutched at her still-sore shoulder that something in her finally broke. It felt like the tiniest shred of hope.

 _A Huo can’t cry,_ she thought, drawing her knees up against her chest and hiding her masked face in them. _But I’m not a Huo right now. I’m a Ma. Nobody cares if a nomad cries._

She sobbed.


	18. Kukri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lan Fan flipped her kunai, and went for his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:
> 
> "Quiet," from the _Oboromuramasa_ soundtrack.  
>  "Demon Lord Nine-Tail's Extermination," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.  
>  "Granny Bokusen's Theme," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.
> 
> Definition: Cai ni zu zong shi ba dai (肏你祖宗十八代, pinyin cào nǐ zǔ zōng shí bā dài) is basically the worst thing you can say to someone in many cases. It literally translates as "fuck your ancestors to the 18th generation." Say this in China, and most of the time someone will punch you in the face.
> 
> DRAMATIS PERSONAE  
> Lan Fan Huo, a badass and kind of emotionally vulnerable right now. AKA Feiyan Ma.  
> Ling Yao, the Dawn Emperor, the Son of Heaven, holder of a Philospoher's Stone, and sick to the teeth of all this political crap.  
> Mei Chang, Imperial Cousin, alkahestrist, and an all-around badass.  
> Huian Yao, Ling's esteemed mother and very much in love with the Empress' throne.  
> Peizhi, a beggar boy with hidden talents.  
> Al Elric, an Amestrian alchemist who's trying to figure out alkahestry. He's doing better than his brother would be.  
> Lien Hua Feng, an Imperial Cousin and companion of Feiyan Ma. Her motives remain a mystery.  
> Xinzhe Feng, Lien Hua's brother. A snarky bastard.  
> Dong Mao Feng, Lien Hua and Xinzhe's brother. Kind of a jerk.  
> Gen Chang, a kickass with a longbow. AKA Chang.  
> Huli, a Letoist and firestarter with a fascination for Feiyan Ma. (He wants to kick her butt.)  
> Sheng, a Letoist and firestarter who was originally an Aerugan slave. Really good with a crossbow.  
> Mao, a Letoist and firestarter with a thing for cats.
> 
> Trigger: Blood and violence.

**Seventeen: Kukri**

Mei caught up with them about two hours after they settled in to their watch. Xiao Mei sensed her before he did; on his shoulder, the little bearcat perked up her ears and began to knead his jacket sleeve, making that funny rasping purring sound that sounded halfway between a cat and a bear’s growl. A few seconds after that, Al caught a flare of her through the Pulse, peony blossoms and steel, and Mei dropped down between him and Peizhi without a word. Peizhi fell back onto his butt and swore under his breath; Mei gave him a look.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, in Amestrian. She smothered her _qi,_ and Al copied her, stifling it until he could barely feel the Pulse at all. “I had to fix Feiyan’s shoulder; she’s doing much better. Anxious as usual. Who’s this?” she added, and frowned at Peizhi. Peizhi, who’d been caught staring, hastily averted his eyes. She’d tucked all her hair up under a cap she’d pulled low over her eyes, but there was one needle-thin braid hanging against her cheek, and a tiny butterfly carved out of jade had been tied to the bottom of it. Only alkahestrists were allowed to wear their hair in braids like Mei did, and only truly skilled ones were permitted to have jade woven into it. She rarely ever did it—she’d told him once that it made her hair click, and she didn’t like it—but Al was quite sure that the box on her desk that flickered and pulsed with _qi_ in his worldsense was filled with jade figurines for her hair. Al sat back on his heels.

“Ma’s foundling. The jockey.” As he watched, Peizhi’s eyes narrowed. Of course the boy had picked up the word _Ma_. Al ignored him. “I ran into him while I was looking for that place down in Xuanwu, Hong’s Tavern, and I brought him along.” He glanced at Mei. “Xinzhe Feng’s inside.”

They’d followed Xinzhe Feng to a decrepit-looking building in Nuqu. Judging by the sheer number of women peering out the windows, dressed in progressively fewer pieces of clothing every time they darted glances out into the street, it was a whorehouse. Al only recognized two of the characters on the sign hung above the door, the word for _mountain_ and the word for _home_ , and Peizhi had mumbled the translation into his ear. Thistle Mountain Bath House. As he watched, one of the women on the rickety third floor dropped a flower to the ground below. The man who collected it presented it to the guard at the door, and was ushered inside.  

“In _there_?” Mei’s eyebrows rose. “If he wanted a woman, he could have just asked one of the maidservants. I know his brother Dong Mao uses the woman they brought with them from Feng-guo fairly regularly, and usually those triplets don’t mind sharing. Why is he _here_?”

In spite of himself, Al felt his cheeks turn red. He knew whorehouses were popular no matter what country they were in. Sometimes in the middle of the night he’d heard people in the hotels and military compounds they’d stayed in talking about whores and sex and things. It wasn’t like he was ignorant. But in Amestris those places were closed systems, even if they’d been funded and unionized by the government. People didn’t really talk about them, outside the dead of night. Here in Xing, they were as much of a fact of life as rickshaws and alkahestry, and the fact that Mei—who blushed over the tiniest of things—could talk about her brother having sex without a single hint of pink in her cheeks was a little overwhelming.

Neither Peizhi nor Mei seemed to have noticed he’d blushed. He coughed, and then said, “That’s what we thought.”

“He’ll catch a disease by just walking through the door.” Mei wrinkled her nose. Xiao Mei leaped from Al’s shoulder to hers, and she scratched the bearcat’s ears. She looked back at Al, and then just as quickly looked away again, the tips of her ears turning pink. Maybe she wasn’t so unaffected as she seemed, after all. “You’re sure this one is trustworthy?” she asked finally, without looking at Peizhi. Al shrugged.

“He’s been sitting here watching with me for the past two hours and he could have left before then. He wants to find the Fires of God for some reason. I didn’t see any harm in letting him come.”

“You’re talking about me,” said Peizhi in Xingese, and Mei scowled at him. “I can tell.”

Mei muttered something under her breath that was in Xingese too fast and too full of dialect for him to catch—he thought it was Chang-guo slang—and then she brushed her braid back over her shoulder. “What are you doing here, anyway, horse-boy?” she said. “You’re not a firestarter. What do you want to find them for?”

“Milady Ma wants to talk to the Firebrands,” said Peizhi stoutly, and crossed his skinny arms over his chest. “I owe her. What are _you_ doing here, alkahestrist?”

Mei glared at Peizhi for a long moment. Al wondered if she was going to snarl. Then, unexpectedly, she smirked, and turned back to stare at Thistle Mountain Bath House. She didn’t answer him. Peizhi went all scowly when he realized she wasn’t going to answer him, but he didn’t say anything about it. Al took his hat off. “It’s too far away for me to feel anything,” he said to Mei in Amestrian. “Can you sense him?”

“Yes.” She chewed on a cuticle. On her shoulder, Xiao Mei began to nibble on her claws. “He’s just sitting in one of the second-floor rooms. Someone’s in there with him. I can’t tell who; I’ve never felt the signature before.”

“What’s it like?”

“Cooking oil and parchment.” She flicked her fingers at him in a message he knew very well from all the hours of training— _be quiet_. “Feng is—”

“Hot glass and some kind of spice.” One that he hadn’t tasted in Amestris outside of expensive restaurants.

“Cumin,” said Mei in Xingese. She only did that if she didn’t know the Amestrian word.

“Is that what that is?” said Peizhi said. They both turned to look at him, and he shrank back a little before his eyebrows snapped together. “I—I knew he tasted like _some_ kind of spice.”

Mei’s eyes sharpened. “What do you mean, taste?”

“I dunno. People taste like things.” He pointed at Al. “He’s all…sparky. And he smells like fresh paint.”

Al blinked. “I do?”

“And you’re flowers and metal,” Peizhi told Mei. Mei glanced back at Al, and then ducked down behind the line of the roof again to grab Peizhi’s chin in one hand. He yelped, and tried to wrench away, but she must have dug her nails in, because he went abruptly still. Al went back to watching Thistle Mountain. Mei would be able to tell if Xinzhe Feng moved an inch, and besides, he was more interested in seeing who was coming into the whorehouse than going out of it. People only seemed to be able to get in if a rose was dropped. Even if the place looked filthy, it was selective about its clientele.

“How long have you been able to taste people?” Mei said finally. Peizhi squirmed.

“I dunno, I can’t do it all the time. Since I was a kid.”

“You’re still a kid,” said Mei.

“Older’n _you_ ,” he snapped. Mei pinched him again. “Son of a _bitch_.”

“You know what the Dragon’s Pulse is?”

“‘course. Everyone knows what that is. Lemme go.”

Mei went back to muttering in Chang-guo slang, and let go of Peizhi. Out in the street, another rose dropped to a man on the sidewalk. How did one get an introduction? Al wondered, as the man presented his rose—colored a garish yellow—to the guard, and was let through. Depending on the whore, the rose was colored differently. Some were natural, but there were others that were blue or purple or even white-tipped cobalt. It was dazzling. _They must have an alkahestrist_ , he thought to himself. If it was just paint, the color would smear, and this seemed natural, or close enough.

_The Feng wanted an alkahestrist._

“Mei,” he said.

“Where do you live, anyway?” she snapped at Peizhi. Peizhi went all funny and stiff, like Ed did when he thought someone was being insulting.

“Not tellin’ _you_. I don’t know you.” He glanced at Al. “Ah-Li, make her leave me alone.”

“I don’t _make_ her do anything,” said Al absently, as a vibrantly green rose fluttered down from a second floor window. On the ground, a man in a Qarashi headscarf and long gray robes caught it before it hit the ground. “Mei.” 

She hadn’t heard him. “How often do you taste people?”

“I dunno, pretty often. Spirits take it, woman, don’t _pinch me_!”

“Watch your language, you smell like a—”

“ _Mei_ ,” said Al again, and she snapped to attention.

“ _What_?”

“What’s the Feng color?”

“Feng-color?” She squinted at him, as if she was worried he was ill. “What are you talking about?”

“Feng-guo,” he said impatiently, reaching out for the _qi-_ signature of the man in the Qarashi headscarf, but he was on the other side of the street, and he couldn’t quite make it. “Its symbol is a pheasant, right? On what color background?”

“Oh, the standard color.” She frowned. “Forest green. Why?”

“We have to move,” he said. Al stood, bounced a few times on the balls of his feet, and then clapped his hands and set them against the wooden crates that someone had piled here months ago. With a crackle of alchemy, they split and slithered together again in the form of a ladder, which he pushed over the side of the building. “Come on.”

“What are we supposed to do, exactly?”

“I don’t know, but Feng’s meeting with someone.” For the first time in a long while, he wished he was back in the suit of armor. If he had been, he wouldn’t have had to mess with a ladder. He could have just jumped off the roof and kept moving. Then he felt the way the muscles in his legs and arms moved as he climbed, and wondered if he was a fool. “We have to get in there.”

“How?” Mei was two rungs above him on the ladder; all he could see were her ankles and the long tail of her brown skirt fluttering against her heels. “It’s by invitation only. You saw the roses. _You_ ,” she added sharply, presumably at Peizhi. “Come on.”

“ _I’m_ not goin’ in there,” Peizhi grumbled, but as Al dismounted and clapped his hands free of dust, he started down as well. Mei jumped the last four rungs and stumbled into Al, setting her hands flat against his chest and stomach in an effort to catch herself. Her fingers curled into his dirty shirt. Al sucked in a breath, and stared very hard at the wall. He might have imagined it, but he was fairly sure Mei clung on for a second longer than she had to before she pulled away with an awkward cough. 

“You want to find the firestarters, then you come with us,” she told Peizhi. She looked up at Al for a moment, and then over at the front gates of Thistle Mountain. The fall of roses had stopped for the moment—maybe the house was full up on customers—but some of the windows were still open. One of them noticed that she was being watched, and waggled her fingers at Al. He flushed brick red. “There’ll probably be a back door,” said Mei, who hadn’t noticed, “but it’ll have a guard. We could knock him out—”

“The whole block’ll see you do it,” said Peizhi in disgust. Mei puffed up like an adder, and Al put a hand on her shoulder before she could hiss. “You’re gonna wanna take it from the rooftop or through a window if you can, but that’d be at night. Since it’s daylight, the only way without anyone paying attention is through the front door.”

“And how do _you_ know this?”

Peizhi drew himself up. “When I was little gangs’d have me be their breaker. I’m small, so it was easier for me to get through windows and things than it was for the actual robbers.” His eyes dared them to judge him for it. “Lemme do it,” he added, and started forward. Mei squealed, and went to grab him, but Peizhi was like an eel. He slipped free of her grasp and darted across the street to the guard. Al nearly swallowed his own tongue.

“What is he _doing_?”

Peizhi was chattering in the Lower Xinjing dialect, slurring his vowels and squashing his verbs until Al had to strain as hard as he could in order to understand. The only reason he heard Peizhi at all was that Peizhi had sent his voice up an octave and a half, and was chattering like his voice hadn’t even begun to break; he tugged at the guard’s sleeve, pointing back at Mei and Al, and then said something very insistently. Mei went up on tiptoe as Peizhi dodged the guard’s fist, said something else, and then came scuttling back across the street towards them. He seized Al’s sleeve this time, but only between two fingers, as if it was something distasteful.

“I told him she’s my sister.” He jerked his head at Mei. “And that you’re our servant.”

“Servant?”

“Yeah, servant.” Peizhi scowled at Al, daring him to talk back. “Only reason I could think to tell him why we had a _laowai_ with us.”

“So all you could think of was indentured servant?” Mei hissed. Peizhi shrugged.

“There are more indentured _laowai_ in Xinjing than you’d think. Anyway, I said you wanted to audition for Thistle Mountain—”

Mei went sheet white. “You said _what_?”

“You know another way for a girl to get into a rookery?” He rolled his eyes. “Come on, _jie-jie_. And you too, _laowai_. You wanted to get in fast, right?”

“Mei,” said Al, and Mei turned to him with her eyes wide and her lips parted. “It’s our only option.”

Mei stared at him for a moment. Then she pressed her lips together. “Fine,” she said. “Keep your head down. Come on, _laowai_ ,” she added, in a much louder voice, and then she punched Peizhi hard in the back of the shoulder (he didn’t flinch) before flouncing across the street to the guard. Al kept his head low and his eyes averted as he trailed after them, shuffling like some of the cart drivers he’d seen while wandering thorugh Xinjing. Another rose, pink with red tips, fluttered down to the street beside him, and a man with an enormous pimple on the end of his nose snatched it up, crowing.

The guard was massive. He reminded Al of Major Armstrong, or Roa, the first Greed’s chimera subordinate. If they’d been comparing, his arm would have had to be four times the circumference of Al’s, and his neck was as thick as Al’s thigh. As it was, all he did was sniff at Al like he was some kind of zoo animal and then give Mei a lingering look. She took off her cap and let her hair—unbraided, for once—fall free. It was too late to hide the braid and the jade chip, but hopefully he wouldn’t notice how the rest of her hair was crimped from being braided so often. The guard reached forward, took her braid in one hand, and rubbed it between his thumb and middle finger. “Alkahestry?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. Mei put her shoulders back.

“I can fix some cuts and bruises, check for disease. And scare off rats,” she added proudly. Al bit his tongue rather than laugh. The guard was more interested in Mei’s cleavage than her alkahestry braid; he let it go without even trying to palm the jade.

“Mama Mina doesn’t like alkahestrists.”

“Then don’t tell her,” she said, and put her hat back on, tucking the braid back up inside. She traipsed her fingers up his forearm. “If you keep it a secret, I can make it worth your while later, hm? Even if she _doesn’t_ let me stay, we can…talk about it.”

Al locked his fingers behind his back and reminded himself that he could take this man apart without doing more than clapping his hands together. If it became necessary to do so, he would. Not irreparably, but he’d do it. The guard flicked his eyes over Peizhi and Al, and then looked down at Mei again before he nodded.

“Go in,” he said, and lifted his spear away from the door. “Mama’s on the fourth floor. It’s the only door without a rose painted on it. Not hard to miss.” He frowned at Peizhi. “They stay out here.”

“Oh, but if I leave them out here, my brother will run off and sell the servant. He’s such a monster.” She seized Peizhi by the hair and pushed him inside ahead of her. “And I need the servant. Maybe he could work in the kitchens here. Collateral for Mama Mina. Two workers for the price of one, ah?”

The guard frowned, and prodded Al with the butt of his spear. “He speak Xingese?”

“Only a little, but if you slap him around enough he figures out what you want fast.” She scowled at Al. “Inside,” she said, very loudly and slowly, and pointed into the den. “Now.”

He bobbed his head, muttering in the first language that came into his head—Old Ishvalan—and ducked past her. The spot on his ribs where the guard had poked him throbbed. _I can take him apart with my bare hands,_ he reminded himself, and made himself smile a little as Mei lingered by the door, dimpling up at the guard. He wasn’t about to consider why this would be bothering him so much. It wasn’t the time or the place.

The guard grinned at her, and pinched her ass on the way into the brothel. Mei squealed, and shut the door in his face. She kept her smile plastered on as they passed the first three rooms, each with a colored rose painted on the wood, but there was a dangerous tilt to it that Al recognized. As soon as they were out of sight of the guards and whores, standing on the base of the stairs, she did a whole-body shake that Al recognized as something Ling did on occasion, and rubbed her arms vigorously with her palms.

“This better be worth it, Elric,” she said, shuddering, but she leaned into him when they climbed the stairs, so he knew she didn’t think it was his fault. “If that guard touches me again I’m going to rewire all his pressure points, so if anything touches him all he’s gonna feel is a lot of pain in his—”

She then said a word that made Peizhi chortle like a primary schooler. Al had no need for translation.

Xinzhe was in a room on the second floor. Al could sense him, now that they were in the same building, the taste of cumin lying heavy on his tongue. The door to Feng’s room was marked with a gold rose, not a green one, but Mei marched right past it without stopping, so Al and Peizhi scurried after her. It was only after she’d burst into the _next_ room, marked with a vermillion rose, that Al realized what her plan was. Inside, a girl who wasn’t wearing anything above the waist squealed, and goggled at her. There were no customers, thankfully. “Who the hell are _you_?”

“I’m going to give you five seconds to get out of this room and go wait in the hall. If you move, I’ll know about it. If you tell anyone, I’ll know about it.” There was a flicker of movement, and then Mei was holding all five of her primary throwing knivesbetween her fingers. “And I don’t need to touch you to make you lose your voice for the rest of your life.”

The whore bolted. Her _qi_ —texture? Impression? Feeling?—was like crushed peaches and sandstone. She stopped right outside the door, standing stiff as a board, and Peizhi shut the door with a snap. Mei let out a breath, and put herknives away. “Well, that’s taken care of.”

“Don’t marry her,” said Peizhi. “She’ll eat you alive, _laowai_.”

“She already eats me alive,” Al replied, “she’s my _lao shi_.”

Peizhi started snickering.

“Al,” said Mei, and gestured at the wall. Her face was a bit pinker than usual. “Can you—”

“Right.” He hurried past her, clapping his palms together and setting his hands against the wall. It was thin; mostly made of wood and plaster. Nails—made of iron, he guessed. Some wallpaper. If he deconstructed the paper and the plaster, then all that would be holding this part of wood to the wall would be the nails, and if he removed _those_ —

He caught the slab of wood just before it hit the floor. Al dropped it onto the bed—there was a squeal of springs, but that would be normal enough in this place—and then drew a knife from his belt and began whittling a hole in the second slab of plywood. He could already hear muffled voices from the other side of the wall. Peizhi crawled onto the bed and started jumping, and Al shot him a grin over his shoulder. Within seconds—it _was_ only plywood—there was a hole the size of a small coin in the wall of Xinzhe Feng’s room, and his voice was coming through as clear as if he sat beside them.

Mei smiled, and covered her mouth with one hand.

“—there a particular reason you dragged me out here to this whorehouse like a common criminal?” Xinzhe Feng had a voice like Roy Mustang when he wanted to trick you, Al realized. Smooth, piercingly cheerful, but full of the kind of subtext that could trip you up and pull you under. Like quicksand. Or a riptide. “There are any number of places we could have used at the palace. Like, say, our rooms. We would have had tea that wouldn’t have had bugs or syphilis in it. It would be novel.”

“Shut up, Xinzhe.” This voice was deeper, a bit rougher, but for some reason Al thought it was familiar. The other man’s _qi_ signature was like…gold, he decided, and very, very dark chocolate. Mei tugged at his arm, mouthed _Dong Mao Feng_ at him, and then tilted her ear back to the wall again. “You were the one who suggested this place. I don’t want to know how you found it in the first place.”

“There’s a circle of men at court who all utilize this place to satiate certain…proclivities.” Xinzhe laughed, soft and dark. “I would offer more detail, but I think you’d cut my throat.”

“I don’t need you to tell me about your sexual deviancy, little brother. It’s your own neck; weave the noose yourself.” There was a scuffing of feet over the floor. “I wanted to talk to you about Uncle Mengyao.”

“What about him? It’s not as though he said anything of note in that message of his. Mother’s ill again, thanks to that Yao bitch, the firestarters are burning and running like always—” He paused. “Lotus coming should have cheered you up, brother mine. She’s always managed to put you in a mood more suitable for human company. Figures, since she’s so damn good at massaging your—”

“Shut up, Xinzhe.”

“What? I was going to say ego. Obviously.”

“You’re such a brat. We should have strangled you at birth.”

“But then you wouldn’t have ever experienced the joy of my sparkling wit.”

A man in long robes passed the hole. Dong Mao. His shoes were embroidered with pheasants. “Shut up,” he said, “and act like a man for once. Uncle Mengyao’s losing the battle with the firestarters.”

There was a funny spike in Xinzhe’s _qi_ , like anger and frustration and fear and hate, all at once. Mei tugged his sleeve and wrote _murderous intent_ into his palm in Amestrian, her pupils blown wide, her face shining pale. Al glanced over at Peizhi, who was still bouncing on the bed, but not so vigorously as before, his head cocked towards the wall.

“What do you mean?” said Xinzhe, his voice tight. “And how the hell do you know that, when Lotus isn’t even in the capitol yet?”

“I have other contacts.” Dong Mao leaned against the wall in front of their hole, so all they could see was dusty cloth. “That Amestrian bastard has been building up an army, and four days ago they stormed Huangchuan and took the city in six hours.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s not just villages anymore, they’re taking whole damn _cities_. They’ll be marching on Zhangcai soon, and if they get to Yongzi then they’re going to be able to march on Bianjiehu without breaking a sweat. We’re going to lose Feng-guo and Uncle Mengyao has been letting it happen right under his nose.”

“They’re just peasants!” There was a scrape of wood against wood, and then they could hear pacing. Xinzhe, probably. “Even if they _could_ take Zhangcai, there’s no guarantee once we get our army mustered that they’ll be able to hold up against well-trained and well-armed troops, not as unfunded and unequipped as they are. Uncle will—”

“Thamasq has been funneling them weapons.”

Thamasq. Al had heard that word before. It was a country on Xing’s eastern borders, larger than Amestris, a desert nation mostly even though it had almost as much of a coastline as Xing. Thamasq had tried to invade Xing almost a decade ago, hadn’t they? Amestrian schools had never really been about eaching any history other than that of Amestris, so he wasn’t entirely sure. The way Mei went stiff as a board against him meant he was probably right.

“How?” Xinzhe’s voice nearly broke. “Thamasq is thousands of miles from Feng-guo, through at least two other countries, how could they get the weapons to—”

He went suddenly silent. Dong Mao didn’t say anything either. Finally, Xinzhe spoke again. “How many shipments managed to get through before Mother noticed?”

“At least seventy,” he said. “At about five hundred weapons per shipment. Rifles and pistols, mostly. Shotguns. She thinks they managed to smuggle cannons in in pieces, but she can’t verify that. She’s been too ill to leave the house lately, and her men can’t be everywhere in Feng-guo.”

“She’s the one who wrote to you, isn’t she?” said Xinzhe. “Or had someone pass you a message?”

“She wrote the note herself and sent it by express rider. The usual cipher.” There was a crinkle, and Dong Mao stepped away from the wall again to hand his brother a crumpled piece of paper. Xinzhe looked at it, the color washing out of his face, leaving him looking ghostly and gray. Finally, he licked his lips.

“Have you told Lien Hua?”

“No,” said Dong Mao. “She’s preoccupied with enchanting the Cao. Once she and Aiguo are married, we have another ally, and if the firestarters do take Zhangcai, then we’ll need all the men we can get.”

Xinzhe closed his fist around the message and said “ _Cao ni zu zong shi ba dai_ ” which made Mei suck in a breath and Peizhi whistle silently. Al filed this away under the exponentially growing list of _Xingese phrases I do not know and are probably very rude._ Then he stood. “I’m going back to Zhuque.”

“Xinzhe,” said Dong Mao. Xinzhe stopped. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Please,” said Xinzhe. “That’s your department.”

A door slammed. Dong Mao paced the room for a few minutes, and then slammed out the door himself. Al replaced the wall, sealing the nails back into it, and then sat back on his heels and brushed the dust off his palms. Xiao Mei was nuzzling Mei’s cheek anxiously, but Mei hadn’t noticed; she stared off into space, biting her thumbnail like she did when she was thinking about an alkahestry puzzle, her eyes distant.

“Mei,” he said. She didn’t respond. He touched her shoulder. “ _Mei_.”

She turned to him. Her mouth was tight.

“Five hundred weapons a shipment,” she said in Amestrian. “Seventy shipments. Maybe more. That’s thirty-five thousand guns.”

His mind reeled. He hadn’t thought to put that number together. “Why would Thamasq fund the Firebrands? It’s not as if they have anything to gain from Feng-guo falling—”

“The Thamasqeen hate Xing.” Her voice was getting higher. “If Feng-guo falls then who knows what the Firebrands will do next? They think Xing is—”

“Demonic,” Al finished, and something cold clutched at his heart, pulled his stomach down into the floor. “They think Xing is run by monsters.”

“And Shiloh Trener says there’s only one thing to do to monsters,” said Mei.

She didn’t have to finish it. Al stared at her. Mei’s face had lost all color; she looked like she had that moment he’d asked her to help him transmute himself, the same devastation, the same terror. She pressed her lips together, swallowing hard. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Well,” said Peizhi, and they both snapped around to look at him. He jumped off the bed. “That was a load of nothin’ for me, so I’m gonna—”

“Take one step towards that door and I’ll destroy you,” said Mei. Xiao Mei hissed.

“You can’t do nothin’ to me!” Peizhi yelped. He was on his toes, ready to run. “I didn’t do nothin’ to you, lady, don’t—”

“Peizhi,” said Al, and Peizhi quieted, giving Al a beady-eyed look. “We’re not going to hurt you. Would you come with us for a few hours, please? We have some things we need to talk about.”

Peizhi frowned at the pair of them. For the first time, Al felt a clumsy fumble against his _qi_ signature, like someone trying to poke him in the soul. It was unnerving. He wasn’t sure what Peizhi found there, but slowly—very slowly—he dropped his heels to the floor. He crossed his arms tight over his chest.

“Need to tell Xiaoqing,” he said, and Mei opened her mouth to protest. Al set his hand against her shoulder, and she went still, muttering under her breath.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go with you to tell her.”

“Fine,” said Peizhi. He licked his lips. “We goin’ to the palace? ‘cause if we are—”

Mei and Peizhi both stiffened at once, their eyes swiveling towards the window. Al dropped the barriers around his worldsense. For a breath, he couldn’t feel anything. Then, something almost too miniscule for him to pick up, like static in a radio broadcast. A flicker. Something metallic. Silver, he thought. He focused harder. Silver and sea salt. Al closed his eyes, reaching forward with one hand, trying to grasp it—

The intent jabbed him in the gut like a blade, and he put a hand to his stomach, sucking in a harsh breath. Mei gave him an approving look. “You feel it.”

“Who is that?” said Al.

“Feiyan,” said Mei, while at the same time, Peizhi said, “Milady Ma.”

 _Lan Fan_ , Al thought. How could he feel her? She was in the palace, not—

“Half a mile from here.” Mei pushed open the window shutters, and hoisted herself onto the sill. She reached into the deep pocket of her cheap brown coat and pulled free a mask of a laughing man, fixing it over her ears. Peizhi gaped at her. When she looked at Al again, he could only barely make out her eyes through the slits.

“Take him out of here through the back. Keep your head down. I’ll meet you in Zhuque as soon as I can.”

“Mei,” said Al, but she shook her head.

“You can’t come. You’re _laowai_. You’re too recognizable.” She tapped the mask. “And I only have one of these. Figured that the Shadow had the right idea, for once.”

He clenched his hands into fists. Mei paused, and then scooped up Xiao Mei, and offered her to Al. He took the bearcat without a word, ignoring the sudden stab of pain when Xiao Mei sank her teeth into his forefinger.

“Mei,” he said again.

“Go to the house in Zhuque,” she said, and then she dropped. Her _qi_ was muffled and gone before she’d even left his line of sight. In his hands, Xiao Mei wriggled, and blood from the bite stained her white fur. Then she squealed, because Al had squeezed her without meaning to.

“Sorry,” he said to Xiao Mei, and she gave him a wide-eyed look of pain. He thought it was because of Mei. He put Xiao Mei up to his shoulder again, and turned to look at Peizhi, who was still watching the window, lips parted. For the first time, Al realized that Peizhi felt much softer than his attitude, like orchids and the soft spread of calligraphic ink. It bubbled. He shook his head a few times, knocking the _qi_ out of his mind.

“She’s crazy,” said Peizhi, but there was a hint to his voice that sounded almost awed. “Gorgeous and crazy.”

“Talk later,” said Al, and opened the door. “If we’re gonna get out of here quietly, we’re gonna have to go up.” 

* * *

 

Chang was worrying about her. She didn’t have to open up her worldsense to be able to tell that much. She could feel it, prickling against the back of her neck, like someone was tickling her with a feather. Maybe he should be, she thought, as she crouched on a rooftop in Xuanwu. She felt…loose. Reckless. Like something had been shaken apart inside her skin. She hadn’t felt like this since Alphonse Elric had given her the message in blood from her master, and she’d realized that he had vanished somewhere she couldn’t actually follow. She felt as though she’d been knocked off her path.

Chang landed beside her with an awkward thump, nearly knocking two roof tiles to the ground. She caught them with her fingers before they could crack, and behind his domino mask, he gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said.

“It’s fine.” She scanned the teeming street three storeys down. It always mystified her how nobody ever thought to look _up_. Their lives were so woven into the earth and what they could touch that the sky seemed to be a foreign body, and rooftops a world no one could trespass. Lan Fan licked her lips behind her mask, and ignored the tug of pain from her scraped cheek. Despite his lack of training, Chang was actually doing fairly well at keeping up with her. She made sure to send little flickers of _qi_ back his way, so he always knew where she was, but he’d managed to keep her in sight since the moment they’d scaled the Lightning Strike Emperor’s aqueduct and followed it into Xuanwu Ward.

Nobody ever used the aqueducts anymore; the river that had filled them had long since been alkahestrically driven into a reservoir below the palace, and since they were a storey higher than the tallest building in Xinjing and the only entrance was in the back of the imperial palace, they were regarded as inaccessible by most of the people in the capitol. But within a week of her master being summoned to the Imperial City for the first time, they’d uncovered the secret entrance, a door that opened up into a set of rickety old stairs, which in turn opened out onto the top of the aqueduct. It was full of bird nests, and moss and plants had long since crept through the cracks in the stone, but for the most part it was perfectly navigable, and it meant that no one would actually have noticed them leaving the palace to get into Xuanwu. She kept her _qi_ leashed, aside from her little messages to Chang, until they’d clambered down the aqueduct again and begun their slow crisscross over the Xuanwu rooftops.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly. A hint of _qi_ she recognized. She remembered the assassination attempt on the Emperor’s coronation day, the crossbow bolt that had slunk out of the shadows in the temple, and clenched her teeth. She’d thought for so long that the assassin that day had been sent by another imperial cousin that she hadn’t even stopped to consider that someone else in Xing might want the Emperor dead. Which of course they would—Xing was a seething mass of humanity, and despite her master’s best efforts, they wouldn’t all be loyal to the imperial family, especially not one that had beggared them for so many years.

The slimy, eel-like _qi_ she’d sensed that day had been shared by the man who had tried to kill the Feng, the firestarter, Huli. A coincidence like that wasn’t something that came around every fifteen lifetimes. It had to have been deliberate. _Who would want to kill the Emperor_ and _the Feng?_ The Feng she could understand—the firestarters hated them, after all—but the Emperor…

 _A firestarter,_ she thought. If the assassin three years ago had been a firestarter, one that had been personally trained by Shiloh Trener (or, at least, converted by him) then he would have thought of the entirely imperial family as corrupted by devils. Of course he would want the Emperor dead. An aberration, because the Fires of God hadn’t tried to kill the Emperor since, not that she knew about. An overeager convert very far from home.

She’d been too focused on the Feng to make this connection before, and she cursed herself for it. She should have thought of this weeks ago, back when she’d first fought Huli in the Chang ballroom. She should have _thought_. She’d been letting her emotions get in the way of her mission, and it could have put her master in danger. It _had_ put her master in danger. The men who’d shot her in the reeds had had no qualms in cutting down the Dawn Emperor to make sure she was dead, even if they hadn’t been expressly ordered to kill him. The Fires of God hadn’t stopped wanting to kill the Emperor, they’d just put the plan aside for the moment.

 _Huli_ , she thought, and she turned back to Chang. The little domino mask he was wearing was made out of leather, not ceramic, but it was pressed with a pattern of roses, the petals stitched out in Chang pink. It was close enough to his clan for him to honor them without outright exposing himself as a Chang, and she actually liked it. It framed his face in a way that cast shadows under his cheekbones, and if she hadn’t known it was him, she probably wouldn’t have recognized him. He was wearing a quiver of crow-fletched arrows and carrying a longbow across his chest. She drew one of her _kunai_ from a wrist sheath, and turned it over in her hand, watching the light glint off the blade. “What did the Commander tell you about my assignment?”

“The pheasants have been trying to roost in the oak. You’re trying to root them out.” His mouth tightened a little. “There were other people, too, the Huo, he said. Lyrists?”

“Letoists,” she corrected, and flipped her knife. “Their leader comes from Amestris, an alchemist named Shiloh Trener. They’re after the Feng—the pheasants. When I saved three of the pheasants from them, they put me on their list of hunts.” She flipped her knife again, higher this time, and caught it. Lan Fan balanced the tip of it against her finger, ignoring the little bead of blood that sprung up, keeping it perfectly still. “We’re looking for a man whose _qi_ feels like an eel. Wet, somehow, and wriggling. It…” she thought back to the ballroom, to Huli staring at her through his pale ceramic mask. She hadn’t had words to quantify it then, the feel of eels had overwhelmed her so much, but if she thought about it now… “Spider lilies,” she said finally. “Spider lilies and fox fur.”

He nodded.

“I don’t know where he might be, other than Xuanwu. Most firestarters are in hiding here. He won’t think I’m looking for him, so his _qi_ signature will probably be unmasked. Even if it isn’t, the people around him will have a similar feeling; they were all trained by the same man, I’m sure of it.” She tossed her _kunai_ in the air one last time, and then sheathed it again. “I want answers from him, but he’s a threat. If he’s dead, I’ll sleep better. I’d prefer if we get him talking before we cut his throat.” She glanced back at Chang, and realized he was watching her. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so many words at once.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Lan Fan pulled her sleeve forward over her knives, and then stood. Wind whipped at her clothes, her hair, but with her mask on, she was untouchable. She closed her eyes, and released her _qi_. The world rushed in at her, a flood of information that took a single deep breath to sort. _Earth, trees, insects, animals, humans._ The Emperor was a shining beacon to the south, like a bright star on the edge of her vision. She felt no one she recognized within a full mile, and no one conspicuously covering themselves up, either. Next to her, Chang was crackling like a match being struck.

“Come on,” she said. “We have a fox to root out.”

Biqu was a quick pass. It was only a few blocks across, maybe three miles long. Lan Fan coasted along rooftops, questing, her eyes flickering from window to window. They spent an hour in Nuqu, and another hour in Shiqu, but aside from a few startled yelps as she ran her _qi_ along the lay lines of the Pulse, there was no reaction from anyone. She thought a cripple boy in a window in Douqu saw them, two dark-clothed figures in masks leaping from a tree to a balcony to another rooftop, but if he did, he said nothing about it. She doubted anyone would believe him if he did, anyway.

Xuqu flickered with intent. It made her guts clench, made her cramp low in her stomach, like she had food poisoning. In the first ten minutes, she heard three pistol cracks in the streets below. A gang war was breaking out, and the city guards were doing nothing to stop it. She passed over a group of them playing cards as outside two men with vivd green facial tattoos dragged a woman by her hair into the nearest alley. She was screaming, and no one was listening. Lan Fan slowed, and before Chang could stop her, she leapt from the rooftop and used all her falling weight to drive her _kunai_ into the larger one’s back. The woman screamed. Blood sprayed across her face. Lan Fan heard arterial drops hit her mask, little tinks of ceramic, and ignored it. The second man was much taller than her, muscled as a circus strongman (or an Armstrong); she drove her foot into the back of his knee hard enough to hear something crack, and then she seized him by his ponytail, wrenched his head to the side, and slit his throat. He gurgled. His _qi_ —it tasted more like brackish water than anything—fizzed and died, and in her belly, her cramps spiked.

The woman was sitting on her backside with her back pressed against the wall, a long knife she’d stolen from the first man’s belt clenched in trembling hands. Lan Fan let the circusman drop, wiped her blade dry on his shirt, and sheathed her _kunai_ again. The woman stared at her with tear filled eyes, her lips parted. She looked frightened. Grinding her teeth, Lan Fan swung herself up onto the nearest balcony, and was about to start her climb back up tot eh rooftops again when the woman lurched up off the ground, and dropped her blade.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait. Please, sir, wait.” She had a lisp and an orchid brand of an indentured whore across one cheek. “Thank you. You didn’t—thank you.”

Lan Fan said nothing. She looked at the woman for a moment longer, and then she nodded once and jumped to the rooftop where Chang was waiting. He didn’t say anything, only jerked his head towards Weiqu.

“There next,” he said, and she nodded and took the lead again.

She passed the large square where she’d met Peizhi and Xiaoqing, spending a grand total of thirty seconds on the roof of a stable and scouting through the _qi_ signatures she found there before dismissing the district and moving on. Three hours had passed already; if they didn’t find anyone before dark, it was more than possible they weren’t going to find Huli at all, and she _refused_ to let that happen. They worked in a crisscross pattern across the last of Xuqu, much more slowly than the other districts they’d gone through. There was more violence here than there had been in any of the other districts combined, and it was distracting. She couldn’t exactly _leave_ women to get raped, or children to get murdered. Chang couldn’t either; once she had to double-back to find him sniping a trio of men attempting to set an inn on fire, his crow-fletched arrow pulled back tight against his cheek. He hit one in the eye socket at fifty yards, and she wondered how he’d managed to aim that well through the mask. He looked up at her afterwards.

“You could spend the rest of your life here and not finish cleaning it up,” he said, and she thought of Xiaoqing and the Autumn Moon Inn, of the trapdoor they’d installed in the ceiling to keep intruders from raiding the upper floors.

“The Emperor’s going to change that,” she said, and she believed it, the way she always had. She offered Chang her metal hand, and he caught it without hesitation, letting her pull him up. “Come on. Weiqu next.” 

Weiqu was the largest district, the Second Wei District (the first was in Qinglong Ward). Lan Fan let out a burst of _qi_ as they crossed the invisible district lines, sending a jolt of _I’m here, where the hell are you?_ through the Pulse. For the first time there was a surge of recognition. Wet, wriggling eels pressed against her senses. Spirits, she thought. Was it going to be this easy?

“He’s waiting for you,” said Chang, who had told her once that if he tried, he could follow lay lines of the Pulse for three miles, maybe even more. He’d never been tested.

“I know,” she said. It was Huli. She could feel him questing at her barriers, eagerly, like he’d been waiting for her. He was less than half a mile away, to the northeast, and she angled herself towards it. “Companions. Five.” One of them had _qi_ that was leaping and whirling like a tornado, and there was a swirl of intent from that one. Chang wrinkled his nose at the cacophony.

“Didn’t that one ever learn _manners_?” he said, and in spite of herself Lan Fan smirked.

Below them, those who could tap into the Pulse were turning their faces up. Some flickered with intent. Once, a bare-chested man wearing a Firebrand medallion opened his shutters and took aim with an Amestrian rifle, only to fall choking with a crow-fletched arrow in his throat. She felt him die, a little burst of pus against her lungs.

The bullet scraped her automail arm, and rebounded. She thought she heard it hit a ceramic tile as she dropped down into a deep crouch, a _kunai_ in each hand. She’d felt no intent before Huli had opened fire, only a flicker of a hello. He hadn’t meant to actually hit her, she was sure. Lan Fan glanced at Chang—he drew another arrow, and knocked it—before she straightened, slowly. Huli was standing across the street, a rifle in one hand. He had one of the Xie’s _hudie shuangdao_ , but it was sheathed at his hip. “Ying,” he said, and she blinked behind her mask. “That’s not at all friendly, is it?”

Lan Fan spun her _kunai_ in one hand. Chang glanced up at her, and she shook her head minutely. “Neither are bullets,” she called back, and Huli looked at the rifle in his hand before shrugging. He wasn’t masked the way he’d been at the Chang party, and she could see that the scar that had split his earlobe extended down over his jaw, a deep scrape that left a trench a full finger-width wide in his skin. His hair was braided again, and her stomach churned. If he was from Xing, then that meant he was an alkahestrist. It would make things extraordinarily complicated.

“If you come too close it might end up problematic.” She couldn’t work out his accent. She’d never heard anyone from Xing with rhythms like that before, and she’d heard nearly every one of the fifty dialects. Then she realized she _had_ heard it before. This was Xingese as spoken by Alphonse Elric. An Amestrian accent. “It’s not as if you’re not a threat.”

She bounced on the balls of her feet. It was starting to get closer to sunset; the sun was dropping in the sky. If she moved ten degrees to the left, it would be right behind her. She’d have the superior sightline. Huli didn’t point the rifle at her again; he braced it against his shoulder, finger against the trigger. “Who’s your friend?” he called over the street, and down below a handful of men and women fled into their houses, shutting the doors. “Last time I saw you, you were just with the Feng.”

“Same with you,” she said. A woman was standing on the roof beside Huli’s, a crossbow in one hand, a sword in the other. There was something around her neck, and her hair was blonde. When Lan Fan reached out to touch her _qi_ , it almost burned. She licked her lips, and shifted her foot just lightly to the left, a miniscule step. “You tried to kill me, Huli.”

“Self-defense,” he said, in his husky voice. “But that was then and this is now. Don’t make me shoot you, Ying.”

 _Ying?_ She frowned. There was another flicker of _qi_ behind her, and Chang let an arrow loose. Someone yelped. Another girl, this one with the cacophonous writhing _qi_. “Grazed her,” said Chang under his breath, and he drew a bolt from his quiver. “There’s only the three of them, I think. I can’t feel anyone else.”

Lan Fan couldn’t either. She inclined her head, just a bit. “On my mark,” she said, her voice low, “aim for the blonde. At your eight o’clock. Kill, don’t wound. Leave Huli to me.”

“Aye,” said Chang. 

“Mao,” said Huli. “Claws away.”

The girl behind Lan Fan— _Mao_ —hissed, long and low, but didn’t advance. Chang kept his arrow nocked anyway. Lan Fan clenched her hands tight around her _kunai_ , and took an-other step to the left. The blonde woman raised her crossbow. “Stay right there, you heretic bitch.”

 _Friendly_. Lan Fan looked at Huli again. “You seemed to want me dead before. What changed?”

“You dying would be a waste,” Huli said. He drummed his fingers against the hilt of his _hudie shuangdao_. “Do you honestly think those Feng care for you? They’d leave you to die in the dust if it benefitted them in the slightest.”

“You’d do nothing different.” Lan Fan sheathed one of her _kunai_ at her belt, and turned her wrist. The catch on her flashbang grenade gave, and it rolled down into her hand. “You’re assassins and terrorists, Huli. You don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire.”

“You mean your imperial friend?” Huli said. To his left, the woman with the crossbow smiled. “He’s irrelevant. A problem that can be solved at a later time.” He straightened. “You should be dead by now, Ying. Did you ever think what saved you? It wasn’t that boy you were with. He might have drawn the poison out of you, but he’s not the one who saved your life.”

“Three,” Lan Fan murmured, and turned the grenade in her hand so the fuse was between her first and middle fingers. She refused to think of the Emperor, her master, sucking poison free of her blood, endangering his own life. That was more than enough reason, she thought, to kill Huli where he stood.

“It was God,” said Huli, and Lan Fan couldn’t help it. She scoffed behind her mask. Huli didn’t hear her. “God saved your life, nomad, Ying, Feiyan Ma, _Blue Dragon._ ” Lan Fan’s mouth tightened. Blue Dragon was new. “You don’t owe the Feng your loyalty anymore than you owe it to the palace. Xing has betrayed your people the same way it has betrayed all of us, you have—”

“Two,” said Lan Fan, and pulled the fuse.

“—to see that somehow, you’re not the only one that’s been—”

“One,” she said, and she threw the flashbang grenade into the air.

It exploded with a blast of light so strong that she could see it through her closed eyelids. In the street, people screamed. Lan Fan snatched her _kunai_ out of her belt and whirled as the furious, flurrying _qi_ that was Mao sparked and lunged. Sharp nails dug into her shoulder, tore through her shirt. On the other side of the street there was a flicker of _qi_ , and a fading; Chang had hit his mark. Lan Fan spun her knife in her hand and lashed out to find flesh and bone beneath the blade. Mao howled and sprang away, spitting, dabbing at her eyes and pawing at her face as if it was going to help her. Lan Fan swept her feet out from under her, seizing her by the hair and setting a blade against her throat. The girl with needle-teeth hissed and tried to claw at Lan Fan’s wrist, but all she found was metal. Lan Fan slammed the hilt of her blade against the back of Mao’s head, and she went abruptly limp, her fingernails falling free of Lan Fan’s sleeve. Across the street the woman with blonde hair had one hand around the arrow in her shoulder, making a sound like a whining kettle. Chang had rolled to his feet, and had another arrow on Huli. Intent hit her hard. Huli pulled the trigger of his rifle, and Lan Fan wrenched her automail arm around just in time to nearly be knocked off her feet. The bullet had lodged in the plates of her forearm. She flipped over backwards, landing on her feet. “Chang,” she said, but he’d already loosed. Huli was fast, wicked, wicked fast; his blade was out and the arrow in two pieces before she could swear. His _qi_ abruptly vanished. He shook his head at Lan Fan, and then he leaped off of his rooftop and vanished into an alleyway.

“Watch her,” Lan Fan shouted to Chang, and then she jumped after him.

The alleys were packed. Lan Fan kept to the rooftops. Huli was easy to track, a clean braid and a rifle in the middle of shaggy hair and bare hands, and she didn’t even need to keep her lock on his _qi_. He turned down one of the busier streets, and she swung from roof to tree to roof again to keep him in sight. Down below, people screamed. Huli had tossed the rifle aside. She was moving too fast for him to aim, she thought, and if he stopped to try and line up a shot she’d be on him. It was nothing more than dead weight, and he was a good enough fighter to know it. She was certain of that much. He drew his _hudie shuangdao_ instead and beat people aside with the flat of the sword. “Out of the way,” he shouted, “out of the way,” and the crowd scattered like roaches. He slipped and slid down another alley, and Lan Fan launched herself off her roof, catching a rope laced with lanterns for the just-passed Tigress Festival. It broke at her weight, and she hit the ground running, lanters dropping to the mud.

Huli broke into the Sevens Race Square, seized a flagpost, and whipped his weight around, thrusting forward with the sword. There was a bandage around his free hand from where she’d stabbed him in the Chang ballroom. Lan Fan twisted her wrist and spun, and her elbow blade slid free with a hiss of razors, catching Huli’s blade and ramming it up to the hilt. He bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile.

“Ah, Ying,” he said, and she pressed harder against his blade. She was so close she could smell the sweat embedded in his clothes. “‘You may come safely out of the plight, but can you resist a strong foe in pursuit?’, right?”

Lan Fan flipped her _kunai_ , and went for his face. He ducked his head, but she caught his braid; half of it dropped to the mud, like a dead snake, the black ribbon around the end falling in a puddle of horse piss. He didn’t seem to notice. Huli took a step back, two, three, and seized a whip from a hitching post, cracking it out just to the left of her face. Lan Fan whirled to the right, lunging with her kunai, but the whip was already out of range; he’d snapped it back to his hand, holding it tangled in his fingers.

Huli grinned.

The whip cracked again. It had a metal tip to it that flashed in the sunlight, like a stinging scorpion. She felt it lash at her belly. The next time it snapped, she caught it in her automail hand and sliced off the last six inches, letting the sharp end fall into the horse-churned mud. Huli wrenched it back out of her grasp before she could snatch it again, but the damage was done. Even if he could still use it, at least he couldn’t gut her with it. She ignored the trickling feeling of blood against her stomach and hip. She bit her tongue behind the mask, and backed out of reach, spinning her _kunai_ between her fingers. Huli watched her do it, his eyes tracking the blade.

Lan Fan paused when she realized that the dagger at his hip was hers.

“You took that,” she said, and he blinked at her once before the corner of his lips quirked.

“Waste not.”

The whip bit into her forearm. Lan Fan couldn’t help it; she let out a little noise as the rough leather, meant for horseflesh and thicker hides, cut deep into the skin of her wrist, drawing blood thorugh the cloth. Huli wrenched her forward, and Lan Fan let herself fall, tucking her head in and rolling through the mud to stab at his knees. Her elbow blade hit; blood sprayed back against her mask. She cut the whip at the base of the handle before rolling back to her feet, her _kunai_ against Huli’s throat.

His _hudie shuangdao_ was resting on her jugular.

They stood there for a moment. Lan Fan panted hard. Blood was running down her fingers, dripping off into the mud. Her belly hurt. If he was in pain, Huli didn’t show it. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, and said, “I don’t want to kill you, Ying. I want you to understand.”

“Like hell,” she said, and leaned forward into the blade. She felt it slice through into skin, felt blood well up at the cut, but it had given her leverage, and the kunai had made the deeper cut. Huli hissed as it bit into his neck. “Last chance, firestarter.”

There was a burst of _qi_ in her senses. Peonies and steel. In the same instant Huli whirled away from her, and three of Mei Chang’s throwing knives hit the mud. Two more sank deep. The red ribbons dangled from Huli’s shoulder and chest. He howled. Lan Fan seized the blade in his belt and wrenched it free, and blood welled on his hip. A figure all in brown fell gracefully from the nearest rooftop, and her laughing-man mask couldn’t hide the jade-tipped braid that hung at her jaw.

“Ma,” she said, and swooped down to collect her knives from the muck. “You _would_ get into a fight after I told you not to.”

“Shut up,” said Lan Fan through her teeth.

Huli wrenched a blade out of his shoulder, and let it drop. His shirt was stained more red than gray, now. He looked from Mei to Lan Fan and back again, and stepped back, out of reach. Lan Fan untangled the whip from her wrist and let it drop to the ground.

“How’s your arm?” Mei asked, and readied her knives again. Lan Fan weighed her stolen blade, and held it reverse style, the blade angling back along her forearm.

“Fine. Keep him alive.”

“Easier said than done,” said Mei Chang, and flung her blades. They landed hard in the flagstand behind Huli in a perfect star pattern, and in the same breath Mei Chang had sketched out a pentacle and slammed her hands down onto it. The wooden flagstand exploded, and Lan Fan threw up her arms. A sliver of wood went deep into her forearm. She barely felt it as she wrenched it out. Huli was riddled in splinters. Blood bubbled against his lips.

“ _Alive_ ,” Lan Fan said again, and behind her mask, Mei scoffed a little. She didn’t respond.

He spat, and took another step back. His eyes flickered to the left. “I’ll see you soon, Ying,” he said, and then there was another explosion, of steam and manure and mud, and Lan Fan couldn’t see. Another _qi_ signature—cavern water and dust—flickered and disappeared. Mei Chang swore under her breath in Amestrian ( _she’s been spending too much time with the Elrics_ ) and cast another circle, but by the time the mist had cleared, Huli was gone.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Lan Fan was panting. Her arm hurt. She laid a hand against the welt on her belly. Mei Chang glanced over her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said. “They’re waiting in Zhuque.”

“Chang,” she said, and Mei cocked her head, but Gen Chang was already on his way. There was a long scratch across his cheek, and he was limping, but he came out of the alley with his bow and his brain still intact, an arrow in his free hand. There was a gash in the line of muscle between his neck and shoulder, deep, with five points to it. Claw marks. He slowed at the sight of Mei Chang, but when she gave him a flickering hello of _qi_ , he joined them.

“The cat-girl escaped,” he said. “Nearly ripped my throat out.”

“The blonde?”

“Gone on her own. I couldn’t find her. I searched—”

“It’s fine.” Lan Fan winced; Mei Chang was wrenching her sleeve up over the cuts, staring at the stripes from the whip. “Don’t do that here.”

“Zhuque,” said Mei Chang with sweet venom. “ _Now_.”

They went.

* * *

His mother had done something, Ling thought. He just knew it. Huian was never quite so self-satisfied as she was after she had managed to get her way about something. Now she was preening like a cat, her fingernails newly repainted red, the ceremonial phoenix talons fixed to her pinky and ring fingers. She’d changed clothes for this next meeting, and was wearing a crimson so bright and bloody it made him feel nauseous. She caught him watching her, and gave him a court smile. “Is something the matter, my son?”

“Of course not,” he said mildly, and leaned back in his seat. “This next petition is from the Minister of the Left, isn’t it, Mother?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” She checked her fingernails again, and began to hum. “If it is, I’ll be sure to pay very close attention.”

Well, that answered _that_ question. Whatever was coming next, she knew about it. Ling drew his hands up into his sleeves and wished, not for the first time, that he could just say to hell with it and make the decrees that he’d tasted on his lips since the moment his brother had tried to kill him in a mountain cave. _End the wars for the crown. End the Fifty Wives. End it all._ Tradition screamed out of every inch of this palace. He wondered if he could push for a removal of the court to the winter palace at Pubuchuan a month early. At least then the waterfalls would be a place to escape to.

Shen Liu had requested that this meeting take place in the main Gathering Hall, and so the whole of the court—even the half-bloods—had slunk in in order to see exactly what the Minister of the Left had to petition the Emperor for. Ling had a sinking feeling, as he saw the number of eligible females in the room, that he knew exactly what Shen Liu was going to ask. There was only so many more weeks he could push back a request to start filling the Lotus Hall, and with his mind so fixed on the Feng conundrum, it simply hadn’t crossed his mind that it would be brought up again until the issue was done with. Of course, since Shen Liu didn’t know about the investigation, that hope had come to naught.

Shan was standing at the base of the imperial dais, dressed in full commander regalia, the heavy green brocade under his armor embroidered with golden oak leaves, his spear tight in one hand. Ling had hidden the ceremonial sword away again and replaced it with one of his much sharper _dao_ ; he clasped his hand around the hilt of it for a moment before hiding his fingers in his sleeves again. The door creaked again, and two of the three Feng triplets entered, waving off the announcer, their heads close together in conference. Lien Hua Feng had put up all her hair except the single white streak at the front, letting it hang down loose against her face. It had been woven through with Feng green ribbon. The other one was Xinzhe Feng, and he was being much twitchier than usual; when Mingli Chen tapped him on the shoulder, Xinzhe seized him by the wrist and twisted before realizing his mistake.

He felt Mei’s _qi_ before he saw her come in through a side-door, her many braids bound up into an enormous bun at the back of her head. She looked furious, her long pink Chang robes tangling around her feet as she marched into the hall, and she gave him a look that spoke volumes before she took her place on one of the pillows that had been set aside for the imperial cousins. Xinzhe and Lien Hua Feng took two three rows behind her, and saved a third for their brother by draping a handkerchief over it, still whispering to each other. They had left Mingli Chen by the door, rubbing his wrist and looking offended.

Five minutes later, the door opened again, and Huian pricked up her ears. It was Lan Fan, Ling realized, as she came slowly inside and shut the door carefully behind her. Gen Chang was close behind, just far enough to be unobtrusive while close enough to be able to do something if necessary. She was moving like she’d been injured, and recently healed; her strides were shorter than usual, her mouth tighter, and she was holding her flesh wrist close against her stomach as if she was remembering some half-hidden pain. There were three fresh cuts on her cheek that looked like fingernail marks.

He thought of his mother’s gold-tipped red nails.

“Mother,” he said, and she turned just slightly, her earrings clicking against her neck. “I recall you saying yesterday that you wished to speak to Feiyan Ma. Did you?”

“Only for a minute or two. She was rushing off somewhere. A prideful little thing, majesty, despite what other virtues she may have. Willful, too.” She let out a little sigh. “I suppose she’ll be leaving soon, anyway. Her cousin is with child, isn’t she? She would be giving birth soon.”

“In seven months,” said Ling, and he let a little snap into his voice. His mother jerked her head around. “She wouldn’t abandon the Lady Suyin before she knew the babe was healthy.”

Huian studied him, her face hard. He thought of the cuts on Lan Fan’s cheek, and cursed himself. The Emperor had all the power in the world, but every time he turned around it seemed like another thing had happened that he hadn’t been able to stop. He folded his hands in his sleeves. _Soon_ , he told himself. He would be able to sneak away again soon. Until then…he cocked an eyebrow at his mother. The Empress smiled again, and drummed her fingernails against the arm of her throne. “One can never know what nobles will do, majesty, and with her family so far out on the borders…who knows what might happen?”

Lan Fan was watching him. He met her eyes, or tried to, but as soon as she noticed him looking she ducked her head and went to stand by Mingli Chen. He met her with a smile and touched her automail arm, probably asking how she was doing. She rolled her arm in its socket and smiled a little, but when he reached out to the cuts on her cheek, she drew back and shook her head. Suyin Yao melted out of the crowd then, wrapping her arm around Lan Fan’s shoulder, and Lan Fan squeezed Mingli Chen’s hand goodbye before allowing herself to be swept away.

“Majesty,” said Bao Zhang. Ling looked at him, startled. Behind the throne, he thought he heard Peng snort. _You and I will be having words later_ , Ling thought grumpily, and looked back to Bao Zhang. “The Minister of the Left approaches.”

Shen Liu was wearing his best court robes, long, resplendent silks that were colored mustard yellow. They dragged along the floor as he came forward. Gold thread had been used to embroider the Liu symbol, a shining sun, into his cuffs and his hems, and the silk itself had been woven to have more suns within it, catching the light ever so slightly as he came forward. At the edge of the dais, he swept his robes back and settled on his knees, leaning forward to place his palms and forehead on the oaken floors. “Imperial Majesty,” he said, his voice plummy, “ten thousand years to you.”

“Ten thousand years,” the rest of the court murmured.

 _Maybe I’ll ban that too_ , he thought. He’d been immortal once, or nearly. According to Greed it hadn’t been all that entertaining. They might actually try to put his head on a spike if he shattered that little tradition, though.

“Milady Empress,” said Liu, and shifted a little, so he was angled towards Huian. “A thousand years to you. Life, health, and strength.”

The court echoed him again, and Ling grimaced. Damn tradition. He was getting rid of that as soon as possible.

“Minister Liu,” he said, and Liu dipped even lower, if that was possible. “You may rise.”

Shen Liu kept his head bowed for exactly three more seconds before rocking back to his feet, in a practiced move that only true courtiers could pull off with any sort of success. He nearly tripped over his train at the end of it, but he caught himself. Lien Hua Feng chuckled, her laughter husky and low, and murmured something under her breath to her brother. Xinzhe grinned, the pastiness in his face fading a little. Shen Liu colored, and ignored them.

“This one appeals to you for assistance in a matter very dear to your nation, majesty.” Liu bowed again, his hands tight against his waistband. “This one begs for your attention.”

“Granted,” said Ling, and forced himself not to prop his chin in his hand. It was a habit from when he’d been a kid watching Fuu and Lan Fan spar, and as much as he would have liked to do it, it would look bad. 

“Majesty, this one can be silent no longer.” Shen Liu clasped his hands together at his sash. “The court is falling into chaos. Your border matters have been settled, your conscience has been cleared, but in the halls of the palace, malcontents whisper. Influences both greedy and negligent have been allowed to take root in this palace, which is the crown jewel of the empire of heaven. Majesty, this one begs you for an answer.”

“An answer to what?” said Ling. “You haven’t asked a question yet.”

Lien Hua Feng laughed again, sharper this time, as if she hadn’t meant to. Then she gave him a look that was half-surprised, half-irritable. Ling gave her a small smile— _think on that, sister mine_ —and then looked back at Shen Liu. Bao Zhang was smiling too, just a little bit; he hid it behind his hand. _And another thing,_ he added to his imaginary courtiers. _End the life-long appointment of the Ministers of the Hand. It’s too much power to have in one pair of hands for a lifetime._

Shen Liu drew a breath and let it out. “Majesty, let this one be clear. This one is concerned about the Lotus Hall. When will Your Majesty feel the need to fill it as it deserves?”

In the corner, he saw Xiao Niao Song and her three daughters stand up straighter, as if at military attention. The whispers he’d been expecting didn’t come. Instead there was a deadly ringing silence.

For the first time, Ling wondered if he’d made a mistake putting this off for so long.

“I hear your question, Minister,” he said, slowly, as next to him, his mother shifted, almost too subtly for him to notice. “And I understand your concerns. The Lotus Hall has been left empty for three full years. While not without precedent, it is rather late to hold off.”

For some reason, his hands felt like they were shaking. When he looked at them, they were absolutely still.

“Minister Liu speaks soundly,” he said, and _then_ the court began to buzz. “The Lotus Hall must be filled.” Ling tried to find Lan Fan in the crowd, but she was hidden away in the silks, even though she should have been obvious in her _deel_. “At the next full moon, each of the Fifty Families may present their daughters to the palace.”

A gap in the crowd opened. Lan Fan was staring at him, lips parted. She looked…he didn’t know how she looked. She’d never looked at him like that before. She didn’t even seem to notice she’d lost her Feiyan Ma mask, that she was staring at him openly, like he was some foreign creature she’d never seen.”Then,” he said, still watching her, inclining his head slowly. _I didn’t forget my promise. I would never forget._ “I will choose my bride.”

It was the ritual phrase. _I will choose my bride._ No one seemed to think anything exceptional of it. Ling sat back, watching the chaos build in the Gathering hall, and wondered when they would realize that he’d meant it quite literally. _My bride._ Singular. Utterly singular.

 _The Fifty Families are dead_ , he thought, watching them squabble. He propped his chin in his hand and ignored his mother’s hiss. _Xing will rise from the ashes again._

“Minister Zhang,” he said. “Are there any more requests for the day?”

“Majesty, your schedule has been fulfilled.” Bao Zhang smiled at him with his eyes. Shen Liu looked ready to cry, he was so happy to get a straight answer. “If you wish to do so, you may retire.”

Ling stood, and the crowd fell to a hush. “If anyone has any further questions,” he said, “now is the time. The hour I allotted for Minister Liu has not yet elapsed. I would prefer that it is completed before Gathering business is ended for the day.”

“Majesty,” said a voice, and he felt his mother stand. She swept past him, stepping down off the dais. The whole room backed away from her, keeping their eyes to the floor. She swept to the ground, and unlike Shen Liu, her balance was perfect. Her white neck had been painted with the Qiao crest, a mark of the Retired Emperor. “Majesty, I have a request, one that I would beg that you grant.”

Ling blinked. He tucked his hands into his sleeves. “Mother,” he said. “What is it you would have me grant?”

“A death, Your Majesty,” said Huian, and he didn’t have to be standing next to Lan Fan to feel her flinch. Xinzhe Feng was the only one who had lifted his head, the only one who was staring as hard at the Empress as Ling was. There was something there, he thought, watching Xinzhe. Something had happened. Knowing his mother, he wouldn’t have ruled anything out.

“A death?” he echoed. He kept his voice light, despite the awkward way his heart was thudding. “Has someone done something that is punishable by execution?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Huian lifted her head. Two perfect tears crept their way down her cheeks. “There has been a wrong committed, a most irreparable wrong, one that only your benevolence can make right. I beg you to do so.”

“If you say so, Mother, then it must be true.” He let out a breath. “I will do what I can. What is it you require?”

“This is what I demand,” said the Empress, her voice sweet, her eyes like venom. “As Empress Dowager of Xing, mother of His Imperial Majesty the Dawn Emperor, first governor of Yao-guo, and the Supreme Matriarch of the Fifty Families, I demand that the failed Shadow known as Lan Fan Huo be executed for treason against the empire.”

And she raised one long-fingered hand to point at the doppelganger Shadow, still in place behind the Imperial Throne.

 


	19. Naginata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took Lan Fan a long time to remember to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for: drowning, references to depression. 
> 
> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> "Who's Destiny?" from the _Avatar: the Last Airbender_ soundtrack.  
>  "An Impossible Crime," from the _Legend of Korra: Season One_ Official Soundtrack.  
>  "Sakuya's Theme," from the _Okami_ soundtrack.  
>  "Utsurugi," from the _Mononoke_ soundtrack.  
>  "Spring Time," by Yiruma. (I think.)  
> Character List:  
> Lan Fan Huo, who is in a lot of trouble right now. Alias Feiyan Ma.  
> Ling Yao, who is contemplating matricide. (I'M NOT BEING SERIOUS JEEZ. ...or am I?)  
> Mei Chang, a gifted alkahestrist. Not so gifted at romance.  
> Huian Yao, who everyone hates right now oh my god you guys.  
> Gen Chang, Lan Fan's bodyguard, and not the best horse rider.  
> Peng, AKA The Doppelganger Shadow. He was a soldier in the Xingese army chosen to impersonate Lan Fan.  
> Suyin, Lan Fan's "cousin" and a nomad woman.  
> Niu Lu, a half-Drachman noblewoman, alkahestrist, torturer, and fashion consultant.  
> Lien Hua Feng, one of the triplets, who kind of steps up. Her brothers are Xinzhe and Dong Mao.  
> Mingli Chen, Lan Fan's court tutor and friend. Xinzhe's lover.  
> Shubiao, a Firebrand and Nohin with serious grudge issues. 
> 
> And introducing some new minor characters:  
> Setsu, one of the Nohin.  
> Ning-Ning, a Nohin/Thamasqeen alkahestrist.

**Eighteen: Naginata**

For a second or two, just as he woke, Shubiao thought he was back in the imperial cell. His room was dark, his ribs hurt, and he’d been having a nightmare about a red-haired demon again, her claws digging into his eyes as she peeled his skin away. When he blinked, though, everything came back into focus. It wasn’t that the room was lightless; it was that the blinds were shut. His ribs hurt, but they weren’t broken any longer. He could tell that just by breathing. And the woman, the red-haired witch, she would never find him again. Not if he could help it.

He was in the safehouse in Douqu, one that only the Nohin knew, and Setsu was watching him.

He scowled at her, and narrowed his eyes. Setsu was nineteen, a pert little thing with a pretty nose and full lips. She would have been highly sought after if it weren’t for the deep scar through her cheek. She’d been stabbed in the face with a spear, and the wound stitched together badly; scar tissue dominated the left side of her face. She was convinced they were both Sakari, that she’d known him before the Tea Leaf Emperor and his Setting Sun pets had ridden in with their spears and their dogs and their damned Drachman guns.

Shubiao couldn’t remember if Setsu had been his clan-sister or not; he’d been eleven during the massacres, but a lot of memories from before that day were fragmentary and foggy, with one profound exception, and he’d never tried digging around in them. It hurt too much. Setsu’s mother, Shion, had grabbed Setsu and fled on horseback. Shubiao had always liked Shion, but Shion had never wanted to talk about the massacres, and she’d never mentioned which clan she and Setsu hailed from. She’d been dead for two years now, from dysentery. If she’d ever told Setsu their clan name, Setsu hadn’t mentioned it.

“ _What_ ,” he snapped, and then turned his back on her. “I’m sleeping.”

“No, you weren’t,” she said in Nohinra. Setsu loathed Xingese. “You were having a nightmare.”

That much had been obvious. Shubiao curled his hand protectively over his still-sore ribs. The safehouse always had an alkahestrist on staff, though the alkahestrist themselves rotated. This week it was Ning-Ning. She healed well, but she had a tendency to knock the patient out before doing it. It explained why his head ached, at least.

Setsu cocked her head to the side. “You were calling that woman’s name again. Natsuko, or whatever it was.”

Shubiao went very still. Setsu leaned forward. “Who is she? You’ve never said.” Her voice tightened a little. “Girlfriend?”

“She’s no one,” said Shubiao, his tongue fuzzy in his mouth. The Nohinra felt like hard liquor on his tongue, burning and loose. “She’s dead.”

Setsu made a face that might have been pity, or commiseration, or both. “You’re sure?”

“The Kusagawa were the first to be hit,” said Shubiao. “They didn’t have any survivors.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up slowly, ignoring the twinge to his chest, the ache in his hands. There were many things alkahestry could do, but growing nails back was often too complicated for the average healer. Ning-Ning had left his wrecked fingers as they were, and the skin where his nails ought to have been was puckered and angry-red still. He wished for bandages. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Not too long. Only a day or so.” Setsu reached out with one hand to touch his forehead, but Shubiao leaned out of reach. He had never been entirely sure what Setsu’s game was, and he didn’t need her making a fuss over him for no damn reason. She made another face, but she put her hand back in her lap. “You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?”

Shubiao tested his feet (his knees felt solid, for once) and stood. “Nope.”

“Was it because of the Nohin?”

He whistled through the empty space where his front teeth ought to have been. That was an old injury. He could remember the Drachman rifle, the Setting Sun soldier, the terrible crack of the rifle butt against his lips. “Nope.”

Setsu leaned back in her chair. “Kazu—”

Shubiao glared at her. She glared right back. “ _Kazu_ ,” she repeated, and he blew his bangs out of his face. Setsu was the only one to call him _Kazu_ anymore. “You can’t just—you can’t just leave and then come back looking like you’ve been tortured and _not explain it_.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” said Shubiao, and rolled his shoulder. The new twist of scar tissue tugged awkwardly at the flesh of his neck, but he could punch, and that was what mattered. “Because it’s none of your damn business, Setsu.”

For an instant, hurt flared across her face. Then her mouth tightened. “This is about that man, isn’t it,” she said, swiping imaginary dust and wrinkles off the back of her skirt. “This is about that white man. Traynor.”

“Trener,” said Shubiao, because he couldn’t help it. “And don’t talk about him like that, Setsu.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” She had her mule face on, lower lip pushed out, eyebrows together, forehead furrowed as a field. “It’s not as if he’s actually really _done_ anything. It’s all been a lot of talk and no game, so far as I can tell.”

“Well, clearly you can’t see what’s right in front of your face,” flared Shubiao. “Half our people would be starving if it weren’t for the Firebrands. You know that the Xingese hate us. If it weren’t for the Letoists, our people would have died out years ago.”

“You don’t know that.” Setsu worried her lip. “It’s only the stupid ones who stay in Xing after what happened. Most of us have gone abroad. I heard from my aunt in Thamasq, she’s remarried, all her daughters have babies. They’re wealthy.”

“For _herders_ ,” said Shubiao. Setsu clenched her hands in her lap.

“It’s what we were born to be, Kazu. Has that damn white man and his Amestrian madmen been telling you that’s not worth anything anymore?”

“Xing is corrupt, Setsu, can’t you see it? The whole _world_ is corrupt. You heard what happened in Amestris. The government collapsed in on itself, the whole _nation_ was built on the foundation of murder. Xing is no different. The Empire’s been building itself on the bodies of the innocent for millennia. Father Trener wants to change that. He gave me a new name—”

“And he did such a good job with that!” She stood, hands squeezed into fists by her sides. “He couldn’t even get the Xingese right, he just made something up, it doesn’t even mean _rat_ —”

Shubiao ignored this. “—and a new life, away from the nonentity of what I would have been, away from the death that would have been waiting for me—I owe him everything, Setsu, and he has a plan for Xing, and for this world, to make it _better,_ why can’t you realize that? Father Trener and his Firebrands are going to change _everything—_ ”

“If the Firebrands were actually going to _do_ anything about the Empire, it’d be done by now, don’t you think?”

Shubiao pressed his lips together and said nothing for a long moment. His guts felt as if they were filled with coals. “He has a plan. He has goals, ones passed down by heaven, and he’ll make it. He’s God’s son, Setsu—”

“He’s a madman, is what he is—”

Shubiao seized her by the upper arm and wrenched her around. Setsu hit the wall hard, and let out a pained sound, a mix between a gasp and a whimper. Tears filled her eyes. Shubiao stared at her for a long moment, and then let her go.

“Don’t,” he said, “ _ever_ say anything like that about him again.”

Setsu looked at him and said nothing. She wrenched her arm out of his grip, and darted out of the room, slamming the door behind her. It rebounded. Across the hall, Ning-Ning, the alkahestrist, arched a pierced eyebrow. (Ning-Ning was a miracle child, daughter of a Thamasqeen soldier and a Nohin runaway, and had grown up in the eastern deserts; she wore her clan bracelets just as proudly as she wore the Thamasqeen eyebrow, nose, and earhoops, and looked more Nohin than he did.)

“You know,” she drawled, “if you want people to like you, you need to stop hitting them.” Her mouth was tighter than he could ever remember seeing it, the usual indolent smile gone. “Or, you know, being such a goddamn ungrateful selfish _prick_.”

“I don’t take advice from foreign bitches like you,” said Shubiao through his teeth, and then he slammed the door in her face. The door was too thin to shut her voice out.

“You ever touch her like that again, and I’ll kill you, Sakari. You understand? The next time you come to us, crying and begging and bleeding out like you were last night, I’m going to shut the door and leave you to _die_.”

She shut up after that. Shubiao heard her clatter down the stairs, shouting for Setsu. He wasn’t sure when he’d figured out that the pair of them were lovers; maybe he’d always known it. They knew he knew, but they never mentioned it, and neither did he. He’d wondered once if he should have told them to keep it quieter, but then again, they were already half-dead thanks to their blood; what did it matter who they loved?

Shubiao kicked the wall (the skin where his toenails had been erupted in fiery pain) and went to the window, throwing open the shutters. Outside it was quiet, for Douqu. He heard a bottle shatter, and a pair of men shouting, but that was in the distance—a tavern fight, maybe. A chicken screamed, and then went silent. He thought about hoisting himself out the window, heading for the roof, but then a pair of imperial guards turned at the top of the street, and it was all he could do to keep from puking. The uniform he’d stolen from the heretic had vanished. Setsu must have changed his clothes while he was unconscious.

He shut the window, crawled back into bed, and squeezed his eyes closed. Sleep was a long time in coming.

* * *

It took Lan Fan a long time to remember to breathe.

The Emperor had gone white as a sheet. The Dowager Empress, smug and smooth as cream, kept her head lowered, but at this angle, Lan Fan could see the curve to her lips, the smile on her mouth. _Why_? she thought. _Why do you hate me so much?_ Could the Empress know? But no, if she knew, then she would be targeting Lan Fan still, not the doppelganger. Wouldn’t she? Her guts churned. She was going to puke. She was going to faint. She was going to scream. She couldn’t move. Behind the throne, the doppelganger Shadow had been seized by two guards, both wearing Qiao colors— _the Empress’ men_ —and dragged him forward to rest on his knees in front of the imperial dais. It was her mask, she realized. He was wearing her mask. Her mind couldn’t process it. For a second, she thought she’d left her body, that she was hanging, transparent, in midair, and she was about to watch herself die.

 _No_.

“Mother,” said the Emperor. His _qi_ pulse strangely, and when she looked at the dais, his fingernails were digging deep into the arms of the throne, but his voice was steady. Lan Fan wondered if she was the only one who could see the way his fingers were trembling. Her vision went blurry around the edges. “Why would you ask this of me?”

“Why would I not?” said the Dowager Empress. “The Shadow is sworn to defend you, majesty, to their final breath, and if they fail, they are to die by their own hand. This _excuse_ for a Shadow—” Lan Fan flinched, violently, and next to her Suyin tightened an arm around her shoulders, her nails digging in to Lan Fan’s clothes “—hasn’t had the honor or the dignity to take her own life, and so I must demand it myself.”

“The Huo family has offered nothing but faithful, lifelong service since they first contracted with the Yao, and Lan Fan is no different. She would never—”

“But majesty,” said Huian Yao. The smile was gone; tears were welling in her eyes. “My son. You nearly _died_ , and it was because of her—her failure to observe her duty, to track down and eliminate those who attempted to kill not only you, but your companion.” Her voice cracked. “No one is more proud of you than I, my son, for being so loyal to a bodyguard who has defended you without hesitation for over a decade, but she knew the Shadow’s Creed when she agreed to the position. She has failed. The consequences are hers, and hers alone.”

It was like being punched in the face. She couldn’t remember ever being in this much pain—not in that alley in Amestris, when she’d severed her own arm; not when Dr. Knox had been treating her; not when she’d fought a homunculus; not even when the Young Lord had been taken away from her, and turned into a monster. None of it compared to this. Her knees were going to give out. Suyin was hissing in her ear—“ _get a hold of yourself, before someone sees—_ ” but she couldn’t, she couldn’t, an innocent was going to die, her _name_ was going to die, and it was going to be because of her—

The Empress turned, just slightly, and took in Lan Fan and Suyin with a wave of her hand. “You see? The poison still affects Lady Ma, even now—poison that you yourself had to suck from the wound, majesty, poison that should never have reached her in the first place. If you need lasting proof of Lan Fan Huo’s failure, look at Feiyan Ma, and the wounds that still afflict her, even now.”

 _I’m dreaming_ , Lan Fan told herself stupidly. She knew it wasn’t a dream. She had to try to pretend, though. _I’m dreaming, and any minute now I’m going to wake up and this will have never happened, I’ll still be in my bed in my own room, and I’ll be me, and the Feng will have never have plotted, and the Empress will never have hated me, and I’ll still be the Shadow and no one will have to die but the guilty._

“Feiyan,” Suyin whispered, and shook Lan Fan. When Lan Fan didn’t react, she shook her again. “ _Enkhtuyaa._ ”

Lan Fan flinched, and shut her eyes. There was a long moment of silence. The Dowager Empress had outmaneuvered the Emperor. There was no way he could deny her request, not without offering a weapon to the opposition, not without making himself out to be a child, not a man, not an Emperor like Xing needed. For Ling Yao to rise, Lan Fan Huo had to die.

“Minister Zhang,” said Master Ling. His voice was low and flat. “What is the punishment for a Shadow guard that has failed in their duty?”

Bao Zhang folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Traditionally, if they have not taken their own lives, as tradition requires, the former Shadow is put to death by wire. The body is then burned, and the ashes mixed with manure, to be put to use as a fertilizer for the imperial gardens.”

She pressed a hand tight to the still-healing scar on her belly. _No._ They were going to kill her. _No._ They would kill her name, they would prevent any chance she had of ever returning to her position as Shadow. _No._ Her family would be dishonored, her grandmother ashamed. Her grandfather would have been destroyed. _No._

The doppelganger Shadow was still kneeling, stiff and quiet, between the two imperial guards. She couldn’t make out his eyes through his mask— _her_ mask—his mask, but she could feel the boiling terror in his _qi_. _I’m sorry,_ she thought, looking at him, this man she’d never spoken to, whose face only seen once, this doppelganger who she had resented so badly for so long. _Spirits, I’m so very sorry._

“What better punishment is there, for a bodyguard that has failed in her duties?” Huian Yao’s voice echoed in her ears, as if from very far away. “Let her remains serve the palace kitchens. Surely Your Majesty has no further use for her.”

 _But I’m here_ , she wanted to scream. _I’m working. I’m of use. I haven’t failed you, any of you, I haven’t, I swear it_ —

“In that case,” said the Empress, turning, and Lan Fan snapped. She tore herself away from Suyin, away from Mingli—and when had he shown up, when had he taken her metal hand?—and flung herself to the floor beside the Shadow, beside the man she’d hated, and she pressed her forehead to the floor and made herself as small as possible.

“No,” she said. “Please, majesty. Please don’t let—don’t let this woman die. She—she has done nothing more than been in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one deserves death for that.”

The Empress let out a hissing breath. “Move aside, Lady Ma. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the ways of this court, but this is the just course.”

“Since when is the murder of an innocent just?” Lan Fan snapped, and her voice cracked in the suddenly silent room. She bit her tongue, and pressed herself closer to the floor. “Please, majesty. Please don’t kill her. Exile her, banish her, whatever you like. Just _please_ don’t kill her. Please.”

Master Ling said nothing for a long time. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Lan Fan held very still, barely able to breathe, waiting, hoping. She thought she felt a spike of emotion from Peng, but it was smothered so quickly she might have imagined it. Then, she heard the rustle of silk. “Mother,” said Master Ling, and even if his voice was soft, it rang through the whole room. “Lan Fan Huo has served me faithfully for many years. I cannot in good conscience execute her for one failure, regardless of what has occurred. After all, I’m unharmed.”

“And yet an innocent was injured because of her failures.” Lan Fan looked up in time to see Huian Yao sweep a hand towards her, and the whole of her insides turned over in one hideous movement. “If a noblewoman of the court, whatever her heritage might be, is a better bodyguard than one who has been trained _from birth_ to fulfill that role, then what has the world come to? I demand restitution, majesty.”

Master Ling said nothing.

“Majesty,” said Lan Fan. Her voice broke. “Majesty, you promised me one boon, any boon, for saving your life. Please don’t kill this girl. Banish her, forbid her from ever returning, but _don’t kill her._ I beg of you. Please.”

There was a moment of terrible silence. Then Master Ling turned to the Empress Dowager. “Well, mother,” he said. “Is that agreeable to you?”

Huian Yao considered. Then the corners of her mouth twisted. “This is my request, majesty. If the girl must be banished, then she will be banished to Amestris. Let her live among the people you love so much. In return, she will never return to Xing, or any of its holdings, as long as she breathes. If she does, she will be executed by wire, as tradition requires. With this, I will be appeased.”

She was hollow. Someone had carved her open, taken her organs out. She couldn’t feel. Lan Fan shuddered through a breath. Vaguely, she heard Master Ling say, “It is done, then,” and then someone had their hands on her shoulders. She smelled perfume. “Come on,” said Lien Hua Feng, hissing in her ear. “Come on, get up, swallow-girl. On your feet.” Niu Lu was there too, holding tight to her metal wrist. Lan Fan stood, and shook the pair of them off. She couldn’t cry. There was nothing left of her to cry about.

“Majesty,” she said, and bowed, a nomad bow, her arm flat across her chest. Her voice echoed from very far away. “My thanks. I will escort the girl to the borders of Xinjing, and see her on her way. It is my right as the injured party.”

“Granted,” said Master Ling, before the Dowager Empress could interrupt. “Guards, release the prisoner into Lady Ma’s care.”

“Chang, with me,” said Lan Fan. Gen Chang snapped a salute and took the arm of the doppelganger in one hand, holding tightly. Peng wasn’t about to try and escape. Through the slits in the mask, she could see his eyes flickering between her and Master Ling. She felt ready to puke.

Lien Hua reached out, and caught her wrist. “Swallow-girl,” she said, and then hesitated. “Feiyan.”

Lan Fan brushed her off and stalked out of the Gathering Hall, Gen Chang and Peng hot on her heels.

* * *

It had been an hour since he’d left court, and he still hadn’t stopped shaking.

Ling drew a breath through his nose, and clenched his hand tight around the heavy glass tumbler of Amestrian whiskey. He’d been meaning to go straight for the rice wine—which, despite his stomach, had never agreed with him—but Mei, blessed, resourceful, cunning Mei Chang, had caught him at the door. “Al smuggled this in,” she’d told him in Amestrian, and pressed the heavy bottle into his hand. The only guard still on duty, a Yao boy, gave them a curious look, and then averted his eyes. “You just have to pour some for me, too.”

“Why?” snapped Ling. Something in him felt like it had been ripped in pieces, and he wanted her in pain, wanted Mei to feel it, this stinking sense of betrayal and agony at her own ineptitude, her own helplessness, in full sight of the one person who had always mattered most—“You never liked her all that much.”

Mei’s lips went tight, and she dug her nails into his hand. It was a breach of protocol, but he didn’t give a damn about protocol. Not tonight. “No,” she said. “We were on different sides for so long, it might have looked like it, but she—” Her voice broke a little. “I owe her my family’s freedom. All of us in the Fifty Families do, and none of them know that. And she—” Mei drew a breath. “Lan Fan never deserved this.” 

Ling had studied her for a moment or two, and then nodded, and let her into the office. Now they were halfway through the bottle, and even he was starting to feel it. The room was spinning in a way that didn’t seem natural in the slightest. Mei had her head propped up in one hand, her feet swinging over the carpet. Outside, he heard a temple bell ringing, and it echoed oddly in his ears. 

“Y’know,” said Mei, still in Amestrian—her vowels went all funny and slurred when she was drunk, he realized, and took another sip of the whiskey. “I kind of _really hate_ your mother.”

Ling snorted, and leaned back in his chair. The ceiling warped unpleasantly. His glass was empty. This seemed somewhat problematic. Pouring himself a few more fingers, he said, “Get in line, little Chang sister.”

“Mmph,” said Mei, and rested her cheek on his desk. Then she lifted her head, and blinked at him. “Why do _you_ hate your mother?”

She didn’t slur when she was sloshed, he realized. She just spoke loudly. Ling twisted the cap back onto the bottle, and made a mental note to open trade routes to Amestris. If all the whiskey there was this good, he’d turn his empire into a nation of alcoholics in no time. His hand quivered a little as he put the bottle down. “Lots of reasons.”

Mei blew a raspberry at him. “ _Boring_. That’s not an answer at _all_. You’re just like Al. Neither of you explain _anything_.” She huffed, and then hiccupped. “’cause of Lan Fan?”

“No,” said Ling. Then: “Yes. Well, partially. We’re on opposing sides, you could say.”

Mei nodded, sagely. “’cause she’s a _bitch_.”

It was more than that, Ling thought, watching Mei take another sip of whiskey and sway on her chair. It was that sometimes he looked at Huian, and saw what he could have been, if not for Fuu, and Lan Fan, and Amestris. He looked at his mother, whose ambition had curdled her like milk, and wondered if he might still turn into her, someday, desperate more for the throne and the power that came with it than the duties that it bore in its wake. He closed his fingers tight around the neck of the bottle, and held on.

“She outmaneuvered me,” said Ling in a low voice, and Mei lifted her head from the desk to peer at him, as if from a great distance. She really couldn’t hold her liquor at all.

“Yeah,” she said, and then jabbed a finger at him. “You’re not as good at this as you said you were.”

Suddenly, Ling was overwhelmed with the urge to visit Fuu. Even if it was only an empty headstone, maybe Fuu would have the answers. It was a stupid impulse, though, born of alcohol and misery, and he shook it out of his head. “It’s not that,” he said. “She’s just had more time to perfect it.”

He swirled the whiskey in the glass. On the back of his eyelids, he saw Lan Fan’s face again, her expression in the mob as his mother had demanded death—like she’d been sliced into pieces, like someone had reached into her chest and torn her heart out. It was his fault, that look. He had been the one to push her into this, to insist that she would be all right. She had trusted him, the way she always did, and he’d failed her when her name, her job, her reputation, her whole identity was at stake. Greed’s prediction, all those years ago, had finally come true. He had chosen the life of Lan Fan the girl over the life of Lan Fan the bodyguard, he hadn’t even hesitated about it, and she would never, ever forgive him for it. That, he was absolutely certain of.

“ _Why_?” said Mei after a moment, and Ling looked up from his glass. “She’s—your mother’s a bitch, Yao, but she—what does killing—exiling—Lan Fan get her? What does tossing your Shadow out do for her at all?” She took another large gulp of whiskey, and shuddered as it went down. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” he said. It didn’t. Huian Yao had nothing to gain from ousting the Imperial Shadow, save, perhaps, improving her own reputation as a loving mother. He knew his mother better than that. There had to be something else.

Could she know who Feiyan Ma actually was? No. He discounted that immediately. If she did, she would have confronted him about it personally; to stumble into the middle of it like that would have been very non-Huian, too…sloppy. No, the Dowager Empress didn’t know about the plot to draw out the Fengs, because if she had, she would have supported him. It was no secret that his mother hated the Fengs. At the very least, she had always loathed the Tea Leaf Emperor’s Feng wife the most, out of all of the Lotus Hall. She would have left Lan Fan _and_ Feiyan alone, in that case.

He remembered the jagged scratches along Lan Fan’s cheek, and dug his nails into the palm of his hand. Huian had her own game here, and whatever it was had her wanting Lan Fan Huo out of the way and Feiyan Ma out of the imperial sightline. The Feiyan Ma puzzle was easy to solve—if the Emperor courted and wed a woman of proper birth, which, by the skin of her teeth, Feiyan Ma _was_ —then Huian Yao would lose the rights that came with being Empress Dowager, and be merely reduced to Queen Mother. She would lose influence, position, power. She would be lesser. Huian Yao was not in the business of being lesser. The fact that she had thought Feiyan Ma worthy enough to intimidate meant that she didn’t know Feiyan Ma and Lan Fan Huo were one and the same person. If she’d realized Feiyan’s true identity, she would have known that Lan Fan was as far out of reach for Ling Yao as the stars.

“Ling,” said Mei, and he jumped to attention again. She was glaring at him. For the first time, he realized Xiao Mei wasn’t with her. It was like he’d suddenly noticed she was missing a limb in its weirdness. “You’re not listening.”

“Sorry,” said Ling, and fitted a smile on his face. “What were you saying?”

Mei gave him a look, and muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly like “Men are stupid” before repeating, in a slow, measured voice, “You have to send a letter to Ed, to let him know Lan Fan’s coming.”

His first instinct was to deny it. After all, Lan Fan wasn’t leaving Xing. Peng was. Then his brain caught up with his mouth. Ling nodded, and drained his glass, setting it on his desk with exaggerated care. “And Mustang,” he said. “A letter to Mustang, too. Since she’s officially an exile, she’ll have to become a naturalized Amestrian citizen. He can…grease the wheels, for that. Considering.” Considering Lan Fan Huo was a damn hero in Amestris, considering she’d helped save their country, it was the least Amestris could do for her. In the purely figurative sense, since she wasn’t actually leaving. His head was starting to hurt. He pushed his whiskey away, and after a moment, Mei stole his glass and drained it. She wobbled back and forth for a moment, eyes closed, face tilted towards the window. Then she let out a breath.

“You know,” she said, “I know what Al said to you. About her. I mean. The…” she glanced over her shoulder at the guard, and said in a whisper. “The whole thing about the matter of _rules_.”

Ling looked at her through his bangs, wondering where she was going with this. If she would even remember it in the morning. Mei paused dramatically, and then her eyes welled up with tears, and she said, “He gives _you_ that advice but he doesn’t take it.”

Oh. For some reason, it was a relief that Mei was going to talk about her _own_ less-than-stellar love life, rather than interrogate him about his. He hid the bottle of whiskey under his desk, and then stood, holding himself upright until the room stopped spinning. “I’m sorry, Mei.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” she said, and to his horror she began to cry. “I’m not—I don’t just have a stupid _crush_ on him, Ling. I’m—he makes me happy and he’s kind and gentle and he’s _so smart_ but he’s _so stupid_ because he’ll give that advice to you but he won’t—he won’t take it himself and even try. I _know_ he loves me,” she added, before he could say a word. “I know. And he won’t—he won’t do _anything_.”

Ling came around the desk (leaning against it the whole time—his mind might be mostly clear, but his body was most certainly not moving right) and he patted her head. Mei sniffled, seized his sleeve, and blew her nose into the silk. He would have winced, if he cared.

“Love is stupid,” she said into the cloth. “We shouldn’t be in love. Or we should be in love with different people. It’s just painful, because you’re stuck and _I’m_ stuck.” She paused. “Maybe we’re cursed or something.”

“I’ll have astrologers look into it.” He patted her head. Mei made a noise like her bearcat, and hugged him hard around the waist. It nearly knocked him off his feet. Ling steadied himself against the desk, and then gingerly patted her back. What was one supposed to do when a crying sister flung herself at you? He hadn’t ever really considered it before.

“I don’t want to not love him,” she said into his robes.

“Chin up, little Chang sister,” he said, and she lifted her head to look at him. “Things’ll look better.” Especially after he had a long talk with one Alphonse Elric. While sober. Or possibly drunk, because it wasn’t something he was particularly looking forward to doing sober. “Don’t cry, eh?”

Mei threw up all over the carpet.

* * *

_I’m dead._

Technically, she wasn’t. Technically, Lan Fan Huo was alive, and well, and sore, and sitting on the back of a dun mare, watching as the man that had been called Lan Fan Huo changed clothes and folded her old uniform carefully over the branch of a tree. Her mask was hanging off a knob in the trunk, and she ached to reach out for it. She’d only ever felt truly safe when she was wearing her mask. Chang was standing guard at the edge of the clearing, making sure that no one had followed them, as unlikely as it was.

She wasn’t just sore. She _hurt_ , somewhere deep inside, someplace she hadn’t even known _could_ hurt. Lan Fan Huo wasn’t dead, but to Xing she might as well be. Banishment was irreversible. She would never be able to return to who she was, not with Lan Fan Huo banished to Amestris. She was stuck as Feiyan Ma, stuck in a position she didn’t want, with a background that wasn’t hers, and a name that didn’t belong. As soon as Peng crossed the border, Lan Fan Huo could never come back.

“You don’t have to actually leave, you know,” she said dully, watching him as he pulled a _tangzhuang_ over his shoulders. “You’re not Lan Fan Huo. You can return to the army, be whatever you want.”

“That was my plan,” he said, and buttoned the tangzhuang up to the throat. “My family’s in Guo country. I’ll go back to them. There’s a farm I left fifteen years ago I ought to repair.”

Silence fell. Lan Fan scraped dirt out from under her thumbnail, watching Altan’s ears flick back and forth at the sounds of the forest. Gen Chang shifted a little, his armor clanking, and then went back to his quiet watch. She cleared her throat. “I never said thank you,” she said, and Peng blinked at her slowly. “For being willing to do…what you did.”

Peng snorted. “Milady, I’m no noble. I wasn’t about to disobey an imperial order.”

“But you could have blown the whole thing, and you didn’t. You…you did a very good job. Protecting him. Keeping my identity safe.” She lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”

He coughed. “No trouble,” he said after a moment. “It’s the closest I’ll get to being more than I am, I suppose.”

Lan Fan slid off of Altan’s back, and tossed the reins over the branch of a nearby tree before untying the rucksack from the saddle. “Here,” she said, and offered it to him. “It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do. Food, a spare shirt, some money. There’s a knife in there as well. You’ll need it, if you’re traveling to Guo-guo.”

Peng’s eyes flickered to hers and away. “Milady, I can’t take this.”

“I’m not a damn lady,” she snarled, and then closed her eyes and made herself breathe. “Please take it. If you don’t then I’ll just have to give it to somebody else, and I’d rather give it to you.”

He searched her face. Then, slowly, Peng reached out, and closed his hand around the neck of the rucksack. Lan Fan let go, and stuck her fists into her pockets. It felt like her mask was watching her.

“They were going to kill me,” said Peng. “And you stopped them. I’ll owe you for that, Huo. All my days.”

 _Huo_. She savored the sound. It was probably the last time she’d ever hear it. “It’s my fault you were there in the first place,” she said. “You owe me nothing.”

“Still.” Peng swung the rucksack over his back, and then mounted the chestnut horse that they’d brought for him, a gelding with a white splotch over one ear. “I plan to go back home and get married, and when I have a daughter, she’ll have your name. It’s about all I can do for you, up in Guo country, but there will be at least one Lan Fan in Xing, lady, if I have anything to say about it.”

Her lips parted. Lan Fan couldn’t find the words. Peng gave her a little salute, and then chirped to the horse, taking off at a trot. She watched him until the forest swallowed him up, and then she closed her eyes. She ought to be crying, she thought. Tears ought to be pouring down her face, but there was nothing in her. Not right now. She couldn’t cry.

Lan Fan Huo was dead, and there was no getting her back again.  

“My lady,” said Chang, and she blinked. He had her old mask in his hands. It looked odd against the regulation gloves of a guardsman. “Shall we keep this?”

Lan Fan stared at it. Then she pressed her lips tight together, mounted her horse, and yanked Altan’s head around. “No,” she said, and she dug her heels in. The mare sprang away at a gallop. She felt Chang’s _qi_ signature surge behind her, but she didn’t care. If she had to look at the mask again, she would shatter into shards, like porcelain, and there would be no putting her back together afterwards.

Lien Hua was waiting for her outside of the kitchen gardens, her arms crossed tight over her chest and her hair dangling in front of her face. She looked up when Lan Fan came around the corner, and flew at her. Before Lan Fan could make out more than big eyes and green silk, she had her arms full of Feng. Lien Hua squeezed her hard, and then pulled back. “You’re all right?” she asked. She was actually _concerned_ , Lan Fan realized, and guilt stabbed her in the gut. It looked like Lien Hua Feng, Queen of the World, had been crying. “You looked awful.”

“I’m fine,” Lan Fan lied. Lien Hua gave her a long look that said _I don’t believe you_ , and then pulled back a little, fixing Lan Fan’s hair absently. The Fengs were so _touchy_. Lan Fan couldn’t remember the last time someone had tried to fix her hair for her. Maybe her grandfather, when she’d let a few strands of hair fall out from behind her mask. Her throat closed up. _Oh, spirits, what would Grandfather think of me now?_ “Why would you think I wasn’t?”

Her voice broke a little at the words. Lien Hua graciously did not mention it.

“You didn’t see your face when that witch mentioned you,” she said, and hooked her arm firmly through Lan Fan’s. “I thought you were going to faint. Or attack her. Or _something_.” She paused. “You’re sure you’re all right, Feiyan?”

Lan Fan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Lien Hua’s hip kept bumping hers as they walked. _Why lie?_ she reasoned. _There’s no reason. Not right now._ “I…don’t know.”

Lien Hua squeezed her arm a little. “It’s hard, the first execution.” She licked her lips. “I—when my brothers and I were seven, an assassin from the Qiao came for us. He was caught. Uncle Mengyao had us watch as he was killed.”

Lan Fan’s guts churned. “How did he—”

“Each of the Fifty Families has a different method of executing traitors and assassins.” Lien Hua shook her hair back out of her face. “In Feng-guo, we drown them. But slowly. The executioner takes the criminal to the ocean’s edge, and he holds them face down in the waves. Then he brings them back up again. Then down. Then up. A good executioner can keep a death going for hours. Days, if they’re practiced enough. The man who tried to kill Dong Mao, Xinzhe and me—he lived for six hours. And we stood there, and we watched. All of it.”

Lan Fan swallowed hard, and said nothing.

“She was using your name to kill a woman who didn’t deserve to die,” said Lien Hua, and her voice was low and furious. Her acid smile was back. “I would have torn her face off.”

They paused in front of Lan Fan’s door. Chang still hadn’t caught up with them; she could sense his _qi_ signature, maybe half a mile away now, but it would take a while before he could track her down now that her own signature was stifled again. Lien Hua glanced at her, as if waiting for Lan Fan to open the door. Lan Fan, instead, cleared her throat.

“Lien Hua,” she said, and Lien Hua tilted her head in a question. “Why were you waiting for me? Why are you—” _Helping me. Not suspecting me. Acting like you care._ “You know who I am, and who my family is, and—and you know that I’m not…well. I’m not really supposed to even be here. I’m not—worth anything. Why are you _here_?”

Lien Hua looked at her for a long moment. Then she sighed, drew her arm out of Lan Fan’s, and looked at her.

“Because,” she said. “You saved my life, and my brothers’ lives. You…” Lien Hua tugged her earlobe. “You trusted me. Not many people do that. And I don’t forget that kind of debt.”

Lan Fan didn’t know what to say. Lien Hua gave her a smile, not an acid court smile, but an actual smile, and hugged her again. This time, Lan Fan hugged her back. She smelled of lily-of-the-valley.

“Come on,” said Lien Hua, and pulled back. “Your cousin’s waiting for you inside. It’s a miracle Xinzhe hasn’t started a fistfight yet.”

“Xinzhe?”

“Chen’s in there too. Dong Mao…” She made a face. “He had something to do, anyway. But your cousins are there, the guardsman and the nomad woman, and your maid, and me and Xinzhe and Mingli Chen. We were waiting for you to come back.” Lien Hua tipped her a little wink. “And tomorrow, just to get your mind off of this, I’m taking you to a party. No objections.

Her eyes burned. Lan Fan blinked, and let Lien Hua draw her inside.

* * *

She woke up at dawn out of habit, and rolled out of bed, because otherwise, she knew she wouldn’t do it. It had been the same after her grandfather had died. It had been a battle to get up every morning; a war to make it through the day. Her whole life was gone. Mourning it was pointless, and wouldn’t bring it back. She would make her way through the day, and if she fell apart, then she would fall apart while doing something worthwhile, because otherwise she wasn’t ever going to get out of bed again.

She wasn’t empty anymore. No; as she peeled herself out from in between Suyin and Lien Hua (who had both insisted on staying with her, and had, in fact, managed to get along spectacularly), all she could feel was fire. Every part of her burned. She wanted to stab something. She wanted to kill. She wanted to find the Empress Dowager, peel all the hair out of her head, ruin her. She _hated_. She slammed the door behind her, not caring if it woke everyone up, and stalked off to the stables. The only other creature in the whole palace she knew that was hating as much as she was right now was Changchang, and maybe, in a contest of fury, Changchang would win.

Jian Zhang was nowhere to be seen. Nor was anyone else. Lan Fan, who had brought the horse training book just to talk about it with Jian Zhang, set it aside and went to collect the grooming kits. She worked over Altan first—the mare had carried her yesterday until her flanks had lathered, and it had been a long time since Lan Fan had lavished so much attention on the horse that had, supposedly, carried her to the capitol from Ma territory—and then turned to Changchang, who gave her an evil look and promptly stepped on her foot so hard that she nearly sobbed. Lan Fan shoved her off balance, and fought with her for twenty minutes about the halter before finally tying a soldier’s knot in a lead rope and dragging her out of the stall. She wanted to try and work with Changchang in a larger area, now that she’d calmed down enough not to rear and strike every time Lan Fan came into her stall. (Not _every_ time. Often enough to keep her on her toes.) It was only once she’d tied Changchang to a post (and to a tree, and a second post, just to make sure she didn’t wrench free) that she realized she was being watched.

“You’re here,” said Master Ling stupidly, and Lan Fan couldn’t meet his eyes. She hadn’t been expecting him to show up, either, let alone show up with a stifled _qi_ signature. He barely ever did that. Not unless he was trying to sneak up on her, or trying not to be seen. She thought, judging by the look on his face, that this time was probably the latter. He cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

“I apologize,” said Lan Fan quietly. “I didn’t—I don’t mean to disturb you. I’ll go.”

“No,” he said, before she could do more than pick up her curry comb. “No, wait. I’m the one bothering you. I can go.”

 _No_ , her body screamed. _Yes_ , her mind—her stupid, traitorous mind—hissed. She didn’t want to see anyone, but she didn’t want him to go, either. Not really. She licked her lips, and said, “Majesty, these are your stables. This is your stableyard. This whole place, in fact, belongs to you. You may remain here as long as you wish.”

This was, clearly, not the answer he’d been expecting. He gave her a long look, and then rubbed the back of his neck, and crept nearer. His hair was back in a ponytail, and he moved like his joints hurt. The guilt was radiating off of him like sickness. Lan Fan refused to look at him, and went back to brushing Changchang. The mare put her ears back and went to strike, and Lan Fan tugged hard on her halter. Changchang squealed and tried to spin out, but she was tied with three ropes, and couldn’t quite manage it. “ _Stop it,_ you wretched thing.”

To her surprise, Changchang rolled one liquid eye towards her, snorted, and stopped moving. Master Ling—the Emperor, she reminded herself—slunk closer, and cleared his throat.

“Did—did Lan Fan Huo leave all right?”

Lan Fan went stiff. She closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t _angry_ at the Emperor, not truly. He’d been caught in between the Empress and the court. It wasn’t _his_ fault that her life was gone. But the emptiness that had been in her yesterday was now a swelling, towering rage, and it had to be aimed at someone, otherwise it would burn her to ash.  

“Yes,” she said. “I watched her leave. She’s gone.”

The Emperor said nothing for a long moment. Lan Fan went back to currying Changchang. Changchang, for her part, tried twice to nip at Lan Fan’s fingers. It seemed more affectionate than anything else, and it made Lan Fan even angrier, because Changchang was _not supposed to be affectionate._ She was supposed to be kicking and screaming and throwing a temper tantrum, because that would be the only thing other than blood and death that could give Lan Fan a way to vent. And Changchang _was. Not. Cooperating._

“It’s recently come to my attention that the Empress Dowager attended to you yesterday.” Master Ling rubbed his thumb over Changchang’s cheek. When she tried to bite, he rapped her nose, hard. “That’s rude,” he said, and then turned to Lan Fan again. “Do you mind if I ask what she said to you? She was particularly unforthcoming with me.”

Lan Fan paused. Temper pulsed, and flared. _Huian Yao_. Then she seized a comb, and started working on Changchang’s mane, focusing on the mud caked into the coarse, oily hairs. “Majesty, the Empress Dowager honored me greatly in her visit, but it was…” she searched for the phrase. “She said nothing to me that I have not heard before.” Memory sparked. “Though…the news of my upcoming banishment was new.”

The Emperor let out a short, hissing breath. “You spoke the truth, in what you said about the Nohin, and the other nomads. I have a policy that prevents truth-speakers from being cast out. You can check in the imperial files. It’s a very strict rule. Almost no loopholes. Even my mother would be tearing out her hair trying to find a way to wiggle past it.”

Lan Fan couldn’t help herself. She smiled a little, and when she was sure he wasn’t looking, she peeked through her bangs at him. There were rings under his eyes that she didn’t like, but other than that he seemed healthy. If she closed her eyes, his _qi_ pulsed vivid-bright in her worldsense. She stuck the comb between her teeth and set to work with her fingers, trying to pull the least amount of hair out of Changchang’s mane as possible. The knot was about the size of a cockroach, and if she didn’t get it out, it would soon turn into a mat.

“Lady Ma,” he said, and she glanced at him before going back to work on the knot. “Was that truly all she wanted to talk about? What you said about the Nohin?”

Lan Fan spit the comb back out into her metal hand, and closed her fingers around it hard enough to hurt. She had to fight the impulse to touch her scratched cheek. “What is it you wish me to say, Imperial Majesty? That she did something to me? Or threatened me?” She paused. “What good would that do? It’s not as if I’ll be staying here once Suyin’s baby is born. I’ll be going back to Ma-guo, after.”

As soon as she said it, though, a dull ache spread through her to her fingertips. She didn’t have anywhere to go. The Huo wouldn’t hide her, not after Lan Fan Huo’s banishment. Feiyan Ma would have to vanish. Where she went would be anyone’s guess, including Lan Fan’s herself. Next to her, the Emperor went still.

“You’re welcome in court as long as you wish to be there, Lady Ma,” he said. “I swear it.”

She lowered her gaze to Changchang’s hooves. “I know,” she said. That was the wretched thing. She _did_ know. She knew that if he could have, he would have stopped what had happened to her, and to Peng. He would have stopped it, if Huian Yao hadn’t cornered him so damn neatly, like a fox in a trap. She tossed the brush back into the tack bucket, and ducked around Changchang’s backside (twisting her tail to distract her from kicking out) to check her fur for ticks. Master Ling followed her, almost casually, if not for the fact that he was picking at the bracelet around his wrist, counting out the beads. Lan Fan bit back what she _wanted_ to say, which was something to effect of _I don’t want to leave; I don’t know how to live any other way_ , and said, “All the same, I think my family would like me home again. Besides, I don’t…” she gestured at the stables, and the palace. “I’m not worthy of a place like this.”

“Worthy?” he said, and for some reason, his voice was tight. Lan Fan blinked. “What makes you unworthy of it, Lady Ma? You’ve just as much right to be here as anyone else does.”

“It’s nice of Your Majesty to say such things, but I don’t.” Not now. _Please_ don’t let him try to talk to her about this now. She would scream at him, and then he’d hate her, and that was one thing she couldn’t handle, not today. Not ever. She combed through Changchang’s forelock with her fingers. “There are other people much better than me. They should have my place, I think.”

“Really?” His _qi_ prickled at her. “Because _I_ don’t. What makes that woman out there—” he gestured out of the stables, at a noble walking by, a Qiao with elegant hair and glossy riding silks—“one molecule better than you, Feiyan Ma? What makes someone worthy of attention?”

“Manners,” she said. “Breeding. Worth. _Tradition._ ”

“Intelligence,” he snapped back. “Courage. Honor. Morals.”

She couldn’t help it. She scoffed. “Those go sour and die in this place.”

“Which is precisely why you’re worthy, and the others are not.”

“I’m _not_.”

“You _are_ ,” he repeated, and she wondered what he saw that she couldn’t, that he was so convinced of that. “The court needs people like you, Lady Ma. Someone who—” he paused. “Someone who sacrifices everything in order to try to do something right.”

Lan Fan flinched. Her hand went tight in Changchang’s forelock. Master Ling exhaled.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was—that was too far. I’m sorry. I’ll—I should go.”

He had turned on his heel and made to leave when Lan Fan reached out, and dropped her hand again. He noticed it—of course he noticed it—and he looked over his shoulder at her. Lan Fan licked her lips.

“It’s gone,” she said.

The Emperor blinked at her, but she could tell by the edge in his eyes that he knew precisely what she was talking about. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her eyes, to her horror, had gone blurry. She was not going to cry in front of the Emperor. She _wasn’t_. She blinked furiously, and said it again. “No, you _don’t know_. It’s gone.” _My old life. My job, my family, my name._ “It’s all gone, and I can’t get it back.”

“I know,” he said again, in a softer voice. Try as she might, she couldn’t get the blur to go away. Lan Fan swallowed, and then swallowed again, and looked away from him, out into the pasture. Fog was growing in the near distance, and through it she could see little flickers of movement, from horses that had been turned out. It made it easier to pretend that her eyes weren’t filled with tears.

“If I had been able to stop it,” the Emperor said, “I would have.”

“That’s not why I—” She bit her lip. Her guts twisted. She’d been doing so _well_ since her grandfather had died, had done such a good job holding her tongue and not speaking out of turn, transformed herself into the sort of guard she was supposed to be, but now all of that work had been for nothing. Lan Fan Huo didn’t exist anymore. Lan Fan studied the ground, the fog, the sky, looking anywhere but at the Emperor. “I know,” she told him, and closed her eyes for a moment. “I know. That’s not—I know that. I just…I thought I would be able to go back.”

The Emperor said nothing.

“It’s all I am,” said Lan Fan, and the tears overflowed. She wiped her cheeks, but they kept on coming, and she couldn’t work out how to make them stop. “It’s _all_ I am. And now it’s—it’s all gone, and everything that’s happened is—it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s _gone_ ,” she repeated, and hid her face in her hands. She couldn’t bear to look at him anymore, if only because she couldn’t bear seeing that expression on his face. She’d never seen him look so lost before. Not when the Tea Leaf Emperor had fallen ill, not when they’d been lost in the desert, not even when she’d done what was necessary, and lost her arm in the process.

No, she realized. She had seen this before. Once before. When her grandfather had been cut down. She’d seen it then, but not before, and not since. It made her guts twist.

“Feiyan,” he said, and then in a lower voice, “ _Lan Fan_.” There was no one around to hear, but it still made her jump. Lan Fan took a shuddering breath and began crying in earnest, in the shaky, silent way she’d learned in the first few weeks of being a Huo. There was a rustle of cloth, and then hands on her shoulders, an arm around her. The Emperor pressed his cheek against her hair. She tried to wrench back—she wasn’t supposed to be touching him, _he wasn’t supposed to do that_ —but he didn’t let go. If anything, he just held on tighter. “It’s all right,” he said, and she went stiff in the circle of his arms. Her shoulders began to shake. “It’s all right. I’m sorry. I should have stopped it. I’m sorry.”

He smelled of smoke and incense and silk from the Gathering, but underneath it was his skin, the sandalwood soap he used for his hair, the smell she remembered for years and years. Underneath _that_ was his _qi,_ warm and pulsing and _real._ If she kept her eyes closed she could see it, a knot of energy tied to the Pulse, and herself, encircled by it, _protected_ by it, and that was so strange, because she had always been the one who was supposed to protect him. Their roles had been flipped, and it frightened her. She took a deep shuddering breath and stared at the sky, staying absolutely still, but he didn’t let go. In all the years she’d known him, even when they’d been children, she’d never once been able to touch him like this. She would never have dared.

He shifted, just slightly, and she felt his breath against the curve of her ear. “Lan Fan, I’m sorry,” he said, and that was what broke her. She choked, squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned into him, because she couldn’t do anything else. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, and Lan Fan wrapped her fingers around the seam of his outer robes and squeezed hard.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, but her voice was so low and cracking she didn’t recognize herself. The Emperor drew a breath—she could feel his lungs expand from this close—and he ran a hand through her hair, once, again. She hadn’t had anyone do that since she was little, and it made her throat close up tighter.

Lan Fan hid her face in his shoulder, and she cried. The Emperor held her until she stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have a lot of people to thank for this chapter, but mostly you have to thank Takeuchi Naoko, for creating _Codename: Sailor V_ and _Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon_ , because without the opening to _Sailor Moon Crystal_ , I would never have managed to finish this chapter. 
> 
> So. Thank Momoiro Clover Z along with Takeuchi-sensei. Oh, and Miyano Mamoru, especially in _Uta no Prince-sama_. And as Ling, of course.


	20. Revolver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> 神州平原, from the Okami OST.  
> あなたと共に, from The Secret World of Arietty OST.  
> On the Lam, The Legend of Korra: Season One OST.
> 
> Character List:  
> Lan Fan Huo, who has nowhere to go but up.  
> Ling Yao, who isn't in this chapter. He's sad somewhere else.  
> Al Elric, who may be getting in a little over his head.  
> Xiaoqing, a half-Qarashi girl, who is very, very excited.  
> Peizhi, a horse boy who gets smacked a lot in this chapter.  
> Lien Hua Feng, Ling's half-sister and fiancee of total douchebag Aiguo Cao.  
> Dong Mao Feng, the quietest of the Feng triplets.  
> Xinzhe Feng, who is very angry. All the time.  
> Mingli Chen, Xinzhe's boyfriend and a quiet bookworm.  
> Gen Chang, Lan Fan's bodyguard. 
> 
> And introducing:  
> Lotus, one of the Feng's servants from Feng-guo.  
> Caterina della Babarigo, Dong Mao's fiancee.

**Nineteen: Revolver**

_21st October 1918  
3rd year of the Dawn Emperor_

There was a chilly fog lying low on the ground when Al and Peizhi left the Chang house in Zhuque. In all honesty they probably should have left earlier. Peizhi had been fretting about getting in touch with his supervisor, or older sister, or whoever Xiaoqing was—Al still wasn’t quite clear on that bit—because in their rush to get out of the line of fire last night they hadn’t actually managed to stop by the Autumn Moon Inn to let her know everything was all right. “She’s gonna kill me,” Peizhi groaned under his breath, when Al had roused at dawn to find him sitting and staring out the window. “She’s gonna _kill_ me.”

Al didn’t ask. He’d heard mantras like that for years, after all. Back in Amestris, the _she_ could mean Riza Hawkeye, or Winry, or Maria Ross. Or Olivier Armstrong. Or Master Izumi. Now that he was actually thinking about it, most of the women he knew in Amestris could kill a person with their pinky finger. In a lot of ways, Xing was almost exactly the same. _The more things change._

Speaking of women who could slay with their pinkies, Mei hadn’t come back to the Chang house last night. He’d knocked on her door at dawn to find her room empty, and when he’d asked Biyi (Mei’s second cousin once removed, or third cousin, or step-cousin on her mother’s side, or…well, something) she’d ducked her head and said that Mei hadn’t actually come back to the Chang manor last night.

She hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t already known. Al had been up for most of the night, waiting for Mei’s _qi_ -signature to cross back into Chang territory. He knew she was _alive_ —she’d sent a messenger last night to collect the bottle of Amestrian brandy or whiskey or whatever it was Master Izumi had insisted that he bring along as a thank-you gift for letting him stay here—but she still hadn’t come back. It worried him more than he wanted to admit.

 _Something must have happened at the palace_. The servants had been whispering all morning, but they still all fell silent the moment he came into a room. It was extraordinarily irritating.

It took three hours to walk from Zhuque to the ward in Xuanwu where Peizhi lived. It was close to nine when they turned into the alley where the Autumn Moon Inn squatted, and the smell of horses and rotting bandages hit Al across the face. Peizhi didn’t seem to notice; the closer they’d come to Xuanwu, the more he’d loosened up, until now he fairly bounced along the street, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly under his breath. The whistling stopped when they turned into the alley, though. Peizhi gave Al a sideways glance, and muttered something under his breath.

Al cocked his head to one side. “What?”

“Why’re you still here?”

He couldn’t help himself. Al grinned a little. “I kind of want to meet this Xiaoqing you’re so scared of.”

Peizhi rammed him in the side with a bony shoulder, and swore under his breath. “Dumbass _laowai_.”

Al shoved him back, and then tucked his hands into his sleeves. He tried to dress as Xingese as he could while also staying as incognito as possible, and the result was a battered _tongzhuang_ that had definitely seen better days. He’d found it in the bottom of the trunk in the room he’d borrowed from Mei. It was a little short, but at least it fit him in the shoulders. “Besides,” he said. “I have to talk to her, too, you know. Mei said she wants to work on your _qi_ -sensing, and she’s not gonna come down here if she doesn’t have to.”

Peizhi scoffed under his breath. “’course not. She’s rich.”

“Nah. She was just poor for too long to be able to go back to it.” Peizhi shot him a sharp look, but Al ignored it. He brushed his bangs out of his eyes. The door to the Autumn Moon Inn had opened, and a Qarash man in a headscarf and veil was peering out at them through the fading mist, his eyes narrowed. “I think you’re gonna want to go in first, though. It’s not like I’ve ever been here before.”

Peizhi scoffed again, but flinched a little when he caught sight of the man in the doorway. Moving stiffly, as if he’d slept on stone all night, he lifted one hand and jerked out a wave. “ _Sabaah il-kheer_ , Owais.”

“ _Sabaah in-nur,_ ” said the man named Owais, and then burst into a flurry of Qarashi. Al blinked, and glanced down at Peizhi. It wasn’t completely uncommon for guttersnipes to be multilingual, not in a city like Xinjing, but it caught him off guard all the same. Peizhi made a face, and gestured at Al. “ _Ismuhu Ah-Li._ ”

“Ah-Li.” Owais peered at Al, and wiped floury hands on his apron. “Good morning. The boy tells me you helped him out of trouble yesterday.”

Peizhi squawked. “I didn’t say nothin’ like that!”

Owais fixed Peizhi with a look, and jerked his head. “Come in,” he said. “Get inside before she skins you. And you—” Al thought Owais might have been frowning behind the veil. “You drink _qahua_?”

Al looked helplessly at Peizhi, who grunted. “ _Kafei_.”

 “Oh.” Coffee. “Yes, I drink _qahua_.”

Owais grimaced a little at Al’s pronunciation, but he flapped a hand at him anyway. “She’ll want to talk to you, too,” he said, and stepped out of the way. “Come in and wait. She’ll tear his skin off his back, first,” he added, glancing at Peizhi, and Peizhi gulped audibly before skulking into the dark inn.

The Autumn Moon wasn’t all that different from other places Al had stayed in, through his trip around the east. He’d visited one or two countries before Xing, and stayed in much dirtier places, that was certain. There was an old white dog in the corner that thumped its tail against the floor when he glanced at it, and the tables were clean. Owais gestured to one of the chairs near an empty fireplace before heading off behind the counter. The whole place smelled of an odd mix of rotting rice, old beer, and strong coffee; it was going to give him a headache. “Don’t have sugar,” Owais grunted, as if this was a personal offense. “No milk ‘til the boy collects it.”

“That’s fine,” said Al, and folded his hands in his lap. Peizhi had collected a broom, and rapped a spot on the ceiling that opened inwards. A trapdoor, Al realized. The rooms for guests must be through the door on the western wall. Another veiled face peered down, and yelped when it caught sight of Peizhi.

“So you’re back, you ungrateful little brat. She’s been snapping and snarling all night. Kept the baby up for hours. You’ll work all night to make it up to me, or you’ll go out onto the streets where she found you in the first place.”

“You ain’t the boss of me,” Peizhi snapped back. Owais placidly wiped out a glass. “Gimme the ladder.”

“Peizhi?” another voice cried from above. There was a burst of Qarashi, and then a girl, unveiled, her long black braid tumbling around her shoulders, appeared in the hole. Xiaoqing, probably, considering what Peizhi had said about her. Her eyes were red and puffy from tears. “Peizhi, you worthless, no-good son of a bitch, where in all of the heavens and hells of all the gods have you been, I’m going to rip that smug mouth of yours right off your face—get out of the _way_ , stepmother, I have to put the ladder down—”

The trapdoor slammed shut behind Peizhi. Al wondered if he’d made a mistake wanting to come in. Owais hummed a little, and set a small blown-glass mug in front of him. It was only about the height of his ring finger, and the coffee inside was about the same consistency as mud. It smelled of spices Al couldn’t recognize. “You from the palace too?” said Owais, shifting his veil so he could take a sip of coffee. Al closed one hand around the glass, and nearly yelped; he’d singed his fingertips.

“No,” he said, and blew on his fingers. Upstairs, Xiaoqing was still shouting at the top of her lungs. “I’m staying with an alkahestrist in Zhuque. I’m studying alkahestry here.”

Owais grunted again, and stared at Al’s coffee cup. Al fought off the urge to cover his hands with the sleeves of his _tangzhuang_ , and took a sip of the coffee. It exploded against his tongue, stronger than black, mixed with cinnamon and cardamom and who knew what else, and he would have choked on it if he hadn’t spent years with Ed’s failed cooking experiments. The second sip was softer, he realized. One could get used to the strength of it. By the time he put the cup back down, Owais had relaxed a little.

“Where’d he find you?”

Al turned his mug carefully, so that the curved metal handle was facing him. “Outside an inn called Thistle Mountain.” He fumbled with the Xingese. “The situation was…not dangerous. Wobbly?”

“Precarious,” said Owais, and Al nodded.

“So he stayed with me until it wasn’t. My alkahestry teacher wanted to test his _qi_ -sensing abilities, so she demanded that he return to the house in Zhuque. We would have sent a message, but there was trouble, and time ended up getting away from us. I will take responsibility for it.”

Owais stared into his coffee for a long moment. Then he took another gulp of it, and poured himself more. “It’s not the first time the boy will stay out without a messenger,” he said. “Won’t be the last. My girl worries.” He lifted an eyebrow. “He’s a pulse-taker, then?”

Al blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One of them who can feel the pulse of the dragon’s back.” Owais traced a pattern in the grain of the wood. “One of the gods’ chosen. Energy-eaters, we call them in Qarash. He’s one of ‘em?”

Al searched Owais’s eyes. Then he nodded, slowly. “My teacher says he hasn’t been trained, but he can sense _qi_ -signatures. He’s further along than me,” he added, smiling. “I can’t sense half so far as he can, not unless I try hard.”

“Hmm.”

A cold nose brushed against his hand. Al blinked at the old dog; it had levered itself out of the corner and padded closer without making a single sound. It whimpered a little, and then laid its head in his lap. Automatically, he rubbed at its ears. Owais relaxed even further, and fiddled with the rim of his cup.

“Her name’s Fu,” said Owais suddenly. Al blinked— _Fu_ was one of the many Xingese words for lotus, he thought—and went back to petting the dog. She let out a great gusty sigh, and leaned hard into his leg.

“My sister-in-law has a dog at home,” he said. “He’s much louder than this one.”

“She’s old,” said Owais. It would have been dismissive, if not for the affectionate look he slanted at Fu. “She sneaks easy. Used to be a good hunting dog until she broke her leg. Now she’s a pet. Need to get a new hound to keep the riff-raff out, but my daughter won’t hear of it until Fu’s gone. Can’t say I blame her. Puppy’d probably give the old bitch a heart attack.”

Al scratched behind Fu’s ears, and Fu began to drool. The shouting continued for a minute or so longer, and then faded. He could hear footsteps creaking along the boards. Owais seemed content to sit in silence, sipping at his coffee and staring at the room around them, and Al couldn’t say that it bothered him all that much. Considering the relative level of insanity that Xing had turned out to be, it was actually somewhat soothing. He rubbed his thumb over the puckered metal at the base of his coffee cup. A minute or two passed. Then he took another sip of coffee (it wasn’t hot enough to singe anymore) and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you lived in Xinjing?”

Owais was halfway through his story of their move from Feng-guo (in unspecified circumstances which he did not seem inclined to elaborate upon) when the trapdoor finally opened again. Peizhi swung down by his hands, and let go, landing hard on the top of one of the tables. Owais waited until Peizhi had clambered down, and then cuffed him hard in the back of the head, ignoring his yelp.

“Break the table and you’ll buy a new one.”

At the same time, Xiaoqing made an exasperated noise from upstairs, and slid the ladder down. “I’ve _told_ you not to do that.”

Peizhi said something under his breath that was probably rude, picked up the coffee pot, and went to make more. Owais cuffed him one last time on the shoulder as he walked by, and Peizhi didn’t even try to dodge. Xiaoqing joined them at the table, then, a veil pinned tight over her face. Her eyes were dark, her eyebrows very expressive, and she gave Al a lingering glance that had suspicion layered all over it.

“Who’re you?”

“ _Ismuhu Ah-Li_ ,” said Owais, and then they were off in Qarashi again. Peizhi returned with another thing of coffee and filled Al’s cup again, ignoring the little gesture that Al made to say it wasn’t necessary. He poured some for Xiaoqing, too, and she flashed him a smile (more a scrunching of the eyes) before going back to her discussion with her father. Al wished he’d engaged someone to teach him Qarashi, alongside Xingese. Finally, Xiaoqing turned to him, and folded her hands on the table.

“You’re an alkahestrist, then?”

“Alchemist,” he corrected, and blew on the coffee. “I’m on a trip around various countries in the east to study their alchemical or alkahestrical traditions. Among other things.”

“He’s lookin’ into the Firebrands for Mistress Ma,” said Peizhi without a qualm, and plopped down in a chair next to Xiaoqing. Her hands went still on the wood, and Owais’s eyes flickered. Oblivious (or calculated; Al wasn’t quite sure yet) Peizhi continued. “He and that alkahestrist girl. Friends of Mistress Ma’s, they said.” 

“Be quiet, Peizhi,” said Xiaoqing sharply. Then she leaned back in her chair. “How did you come to meet Lady Ma, master alchemist?”

Al glanced at Owais. Then he folded his hands in his lap. “She helped me with something very important a few years ago,” said Al. “We didn’t know each other very long, but I owe her. Besides, she’s my friend. What sort of person would I be if I didn’t help her now?”

Xiaoqing and Owais looked at each other. Peizhi muttered something to Fu. Finally, Xiaoqing dug her hand into her pocket, drew out a folded envelope, and slapped it onto the tabletop. The characters scrawled across the front were illegible to him, though he thought one might have been _horse_.

“Tell Feiyan Ma I’ll take her to the Firebrands,” she said. “But she has to do something for me first.”

“I don’t know if I can take the message to her,” said Al. _Or without blowing her cover._ “I can try, but there aren’t many ways I can get around in the imperial city without being seen.” He brushed a strand of blonde hair out of his eyes. “As much as I’d like to be able to.”

Xiaoqing gave his hair a passing glance, and then sighed. Her veil fluttered a little. “You’re an alchemist,” she said. Her eyes danced, and Al wondered if she was laughing at him. “You’ll be able to find some way.” 

Al hesitated. Then he drew the letter closer to himself. He glanced at Xiaoqing for permission, and tucked it into a pocket sewn into the inside of his sleeve, which Peizhi cocked an eyebrow at, but no one mentioned. It was only once he’d settled again that Owais clapped his hands over his knees, and rocked to his feet.

“I have bread to bake,” he said, and left without a goodbye. Xiaoqing smacked Peizhi on the back of the head—or tried; Peizhi ducked before it could connect—and snapped something in Qarashi. Peizhi groaned a little, and slid out of his chair, tromping off to the kitchen after Owais. Al took a final gulp of his coffee, and then went to stand.

“Thank you for this, but I ought to go.”

“No,” Xiaoqing blurted. Al lifted his eyebrows at her, frozen halfway out of his chair, and he thought he saw her blush under the thin fabric of her veil. “I mean—I wanted to thank you. For helping Peizhi. He told me what the three of you did yesterday.”

Al paused. “All of it?”

“He told me you managed to eavesdrop on some big names that the Firebrands are against, but not much else.” She fiddled with the end of her braid. “He said the rest of it didn’t have much to do with what _I_ was having him do, so he kept quiet about it. But I think it was important. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Al hesitated. Then he sat down in his chair again, slowly. “It is,” he said. “But not to anyone outside of the court. Not yet.”

She cocked her head. “And that’s what you are? Inside the court?”

“Yes,” he said, and then blinked. “I suppose so, anyway.”

Xiaoqing digested that. She drummed her fingernails against the table. Then she said, “You’re learning alkahestry.”

Al stared at her. “…yes?”

“You’re learning alkahestry from _everywhere_ in the east.”

“Well, I’ve only visited three countries so far, but—”

“I can heal,” Xiaoqing said. “Well, a little bit. I try to keep the street children around here healthy, but it’s impossible most days. I can get a bit of learning from books I find at lending libraries or that are sold for cheap—people burn books down here, they don’t have kindling—but I can’t—there’s not much I can learn out of them that I haven’t already heard of. And none of the alkahestrists will take on a—won’t take on someone like me to learn.”

His eyes were very wide. Al swallowed a little. “I don’t know much, myself.”

“But you’re _learning_ ,” said Xiaoqing, and she shifted from her chair to the one Peizhi had vacated, the one just to his right. “I know—I know I’m being horribly rude, and that you’re only here for a little while, but you’re learning alkahestry from a master, and I wouldn’t dare ask her. But you’re—”

She stopped.

“Foreign,” Al said after a moment. When her eyebrows squished together, he added, “Friendlier?”

“Yes.” Xiaoqing nodded firmly. “Well, both of them.” She peeked at him. “Is that stupid?”

“No,” said Al. For some reason, he had a sudden flash of Nina, her smile, the braids hanging over her ears as she’d peered over Ed’s shoulder into one of Shou Tucker’s alchemy books. She’d wrinkled her nose at it, but even at four, she’d been able to grasp concepts that should have been far, far beyond her. The back of his throat burned. Al studied Xiaoqing for a moment. “How old are you?”

Xiaoqing scowled. “How old are _you_?”

“Eighteen.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Westerners aren’t as old as we look,” said Al dryly, and her eyes twinkled a bit. She tapped her nails against the wood again.

“I'm eighteen.”

Which meant seventeen by the western count. Al considered that for a moment. He had been spending most of his time before the whole firebrand issue had broken the surface interviewing different alkahestrists. He couldn’t train Xiaoqing, obviously, but he might be able to find her someone who would be willing to teach her. And until then, it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to study with.

Something was rapping hard against his skin, like the recoil of a pistol. Suddenly he realized it had to be Xiaoqing, and he closed his eyes and stretched out with his _qi_ -sense. She felt like feathers, he realized. Soft, black feathers, like a raven’s, and the texture of cherry wood under his palms. He heard her jump a little, and then she searched his signature, too, awkwardly, as if she’d never tried it before.

“Sparks,” she said after a moment. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve never done that before.”

“ _Qi_ -signatures,” he told her absently, staring off into space. She gleamed a little, like a happy diamond, but he barely noticed.

Mei had already decided she was going to take Peizhi on—at least, he thought she had, considering the way she had interrogated Peizhi at the whorehouse. He would ask Mei, of course, but he couldn’t see her minding, exactly. And if there was another person with the ability to _qi_ -sense on their side, one who was already willing to work with Lan Fan and the rest of them…

 “Maybe,” he said. Xiaoqing blinked at him. He nodded. “Probably. I’ll have to ask my teacher. But I don’t see why not.”

Xiaoqing clapped her hands together, and closed her eyes. “You don’t know,” she said, in a low voice, “how much it means. Thank you. _Thank_ you.”

Al blinked bemusedly at her, and smiled a bit. “Can you tell me what you already know?”

* * *

“Why am I doing this, again?”

On the bed, Lien Hua snorted. Lan Fan fought the urge to dig her fingernails (metal or otherwise) into the arms of the delicate wooden chair, watching as Wen heated a needle over a candle flame. There were minute lines of etching in the thin silver needle—an alkahestry circle for cleansing and healing. The advantages of living at court, she supposed.

“Have you seen a single woman at court who _doesn’t_ have earrings? I would say this is long overdue.” Lien Hua fingered her earlobe, which had three neat holes, one right after the other. “Do you want more than one?”

 _Meaning more opportunities for bloodshed?_ Lan Fan bit her tongue. It wouldn’t matter if she had a thousand piercings all over her skull—she wasn’t at risk for anyone trying to rip them out of her flesh. Not anymore. She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know,” she said, finally, and Lien Hua blinked once before grinning. Her lips curved up like a cat’s.

“Two,” she decided. “Two in each ear. That way you can have something dangly _and_ something small, all at once. What do you think, Wen?”

“This one has seen many court women employ such a strategy to great effect,” said Wen, without looking at either of them. She turned the needle over the flame again. “There are also cuffs and ear-pieces which might do quite well on you, my lady Ma.”

Lan Fan blinked. “On me?”

“My lady has a lovely neck,” said Wen. “If my lady were to instruct her maid to draw her hair up, away from the throat, as so—” she wove her fingers into Lan Fan’s hair, twisting it and piling it at the crown of her head “—then an ear cuff with a subtle but elegant design would most certainly draw attention to the throat.” She hesitated. When Lan Fan didn’t move, Wen brushed her thumb against the hollow of Lan Fan’s throat. “A long earring would draw attention to the shadows and the angles,” she said, her fingertips tracing Lan Fan’s jugular, her trachea—Lan Fan had to clench her hands to keep herself from smacking her away. “A cuff would have to be more delicate; draw the eye with a flash of silver or gold, and then—”

“It would follow the line of a long earring, and linger,” finished Lien Hua, and Wen drew her hand back.

“Precisely, my lady.”

Lien Hua made a thoughtful noise, and then nodded. “Two holes,” she repeated. “On each lobe. Only some cuffs involve piercing the flesh, and those are clamped; we don’t have the tools for that today.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lan Fan was still thinking about what it meant to put her hair up, and to show off her neck. “I don’t—” She paused. “I’m not here to attract _anyone’s_ eyes. I’m here for my—”

“For your cousin” Lien Hua finished. “And for her baby. Yes, I know. That doesn’t mean you can’t amuse yourself a little while you’re doing it.” She bared her teeth. “Who says that being attractive has to end in you forging a life-long partnership? Sometimes it’s just _fun_.”

Lan Fan, who had never really thought about attracting anyone, ever—life as a Shadow didn’t exactly result in marriage and children, after all—shrugged a little and said nothing. She refused to think of the Emperor, or his cheek against her hair. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she swallowed it back with a scowl.

She’d cried herself out, there in the stables. The Emperor hadn’t let her go until her tears were over; when her breathing had steadied, and her grip on his robes had loosened, he had pulled away, swiping one thumb over her cheek. He hadn’t said anything, just smiled, a smile so sad it had nearly set her crying again; then he’d touched her shoulder, almost in apology, and left without a word. Lan Fan had watched him go, wondering if she ought to call out to him, to say thank you, but the moment had felt like spun sugar—blow too hard, and it would have all fallen apart. It still felt that way, something fragile and tiny cupped in her palms. She could crush it if she wasn’t careful.

She might crush it even if she _was_ careful, and the thought of it made her eyes burn.

Lan Fan snapped out of her reverie when Lien Hua made a rude noise, almost like a fart. She waved her hand at Wen. “Is the needle ready?”

Wen turned, the silver-and-gold needle pinched between her forefinger and thumb. “Yes, my lady. My lady Ma?”

Lan Fan tilted her head, baring her earlobe (and her voicebox), and held her hair back. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

Four sharp pinches, two on either side; a rush of heat as the alkahestry circle did its work; and it was done. The whole affair took less than five minutes, and the only wait time was for Wen, to ensure that the sets of holes were both equivocal and evenly spaced. By the time the blood was dabbed away, the holes were already healed. Lan Fan turned her head to one side, and then the other, studying the new pinpricks in her earlobes.

“You don’t have earrings, do you?” said Lien Hua, as Lan Fan tugged at her right ear, watching the holes stretch a bit. It would have been a problem, if the flesh hadn’t been healed in-process.

“I had no reason for them.” Lan Fan shrugged. “I suppose I can find some the next time I go out into the city.”

“Cat take your tongue,” said Lien Hua, and crawled off her bed. She flung open one of her desk drawers, pawing through papers and little silk satchels, before finally tugging free a cloth-of-gold bag about the length of her thumb. It was tied shut with gilt silver ribbon. She nudged the drawer shut with her hip, and jumped back onto the bed, bouncing twice before she settled. “Here,” she said, and she seized Lan Fan’s metal wrist and pressed the bag into her palm. “I was going to save it for the winter solstice, but this week has been…well. Happy birthday. Or—the Tigress Festival was last week, wasn’t it? Merry meet, tiger-daughter.”

“Lien Hua—”

“I can’t hear you,” said Lien Hua airily. “I have no notion as to what you’re objecting to. Open the bag and put them in. I want to see.”

Lan Fan’s lips parted. Then she shut her mouth tightly, fighting the burn in her throat—she had cried too much today already—and untied the little bow at the top of the bag. The earrings were long slivers of jade, hardly thicker than her thumbnail; they were carved into exquisite little snakes curled around bamboo shoots, capped with silver at the base. The hooks were made of thin silver wires. The jade was so rich a green it almost made Lan Fan’s eyes water, and she curled her fingers around them ever so slightly before she turned to the mirror, and fumbled them into her ears. It felt very strange to have something hanging from her lobes, almost like she was being stretched, but the jade itself felt delicious against her jawbone.

“Shut up,” said Lien Hua, before Lan Fan could even think to speak.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something,” said Lien Hua, “so shut up. You _are_ a snake, though?” she added, almost worriedly. “I asked your cousin, but Lady Suyin couldn’t remember whether your birthday was in January or February. You don’t particularly seem like a horse, though, so—”

“I’m a snake,” Lan Fan said, and blinked a few times to clear her eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

“Well, of course they are,” said Lien Hua. “I picked them out. Anyway, you should wear them tonight, to the party. You _are_ coming, right?”

“You’re not usually this worried about everything,” said Lan Fan, turning so she could see the jade flicker against her skin. She felt very alien, like someone else was piloting her body. She’d never felt quite so female in her life, even with her eyes still swollen, and her nose still pink from sobbing. Lien Hua scoffed a little.

“Nonsense. You’re imagining things.” She slid off the mattress, caught Lan Fan by the wrists, and tugged her to her feet, giving her an evaluatory once-over. “It’s another modern thing. You’re going to have to borrow some of my clothes again. _Don’t_ get blood on them this time. And get your own dresses designed, I can’t keep sharing. People will start to notice.”

Lan Fan wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t intentional the first time.”

Lien Hua ignored her. “I think black tonight,” she said, lifting a strand of Lan Fan’s hair and hten letting it fall against her cheek again. “If you wear green you’ll look like you’ve been claimed by a Feng, and I don’t think you want that. And as well as you look in red, I don’t want you to ruin any more of my nice satins. So, black.” She bared her teeth again. “After all, it doesn’t show bloodstains.”

Lan Fan rolled her eyes.

“Wen, where’s that black beaded dress, the one that shimmers? And then there’s the heels that go with it—yes, those.” She eyed Lan Fan’s legs. “You truly can’t get away without stockings; you have too many bruises. So a set of those as well. And—yes.”

Lien Hua’s voice faded into the background. Lan Fan studied her face in the mirror. She would have to call Niu Lu; her face was still swollen and pink from crying, even hours after, and her nose was bright red. It looked like she had bruises under her eyes. She leaned back against the bed.

Lien Hua was intelligent. She was actually, Lan Fan thought, quite brilliant—it was part of the reason that the Feng were so dangerous to the Emperor, because the triplets, even if they were separated, were smart enough to make quite a bit of trouble. So Lien Hua’s preoccupation of clothes, with looks—it didn’t _puzzle_ her exactly, but it did make her wonder. It wasn’t as if Lien Hua couldn’t take care of herself physically. Nor was she actually trying to attract anyone in particular that Lan Fan could tell. She was just…frothy, on top. Or so it seemed.

Niu Lu had mentioned this, before the last Feng party. Faces and bodies as weapons. Hadn’t she? Those at court couldn’t solve their battles through war, or through blood. It was through subtlety. It was something Lan Fan had known for over a decade. The Dowager Empress knew it, she realized—the Dowager Empress, who had so neatly boxed the Emperor into a corner. She thought Jian Zhang knew it, and that was why he stayed so far away from court things. He was a soldier; there wasn’t a subtle bone in his body. She’d have thought, before all this had started, that there wasn’t one in her, either.

She wasn’t quite sure if that was true anymore.

“Lien Hua,” Lan Fan said.

Lien Hua didn’t look up from her nail polish collection. “Don’t you object.”

“I’m not objecting,” said Lan Fan, slowly. A lot of things had just clicked into place in her brain. “Why would I object to you giving me armor?”

Lien Hua paused, her hands going still on the bottles. Something—some tenseness Lan Fan hadn’t noticed before—seemed to smooth out of her shoulders. Then she turned, and waggled a bottle of gold nail polish at her. “Gold plating tonight,” she said, her acid court smile playing around her lips. “I hope you don’t mind. Gold goes better with that color jade than ruby does.”

Lan Fan looked down at her hands, and then waved her metal fingers at Lien Hua. Lien Hua’s smile took a turn for the razorblade.

“Who said it was going on your fingernails?” She gestured at Wen. “Go and summon Lady Ma’s maid. There’s less than an hour before we have to leave for the Cao house, and swallow-girl still has to get dressed.”

Wen bowed out of the room. The door snicked shut behind her. Lien Hua tugged her desk chair around so she could sit down, prodded Lan Fan in the ankle—“give me your foot, swallow-girl”—and Lan Fan, feeling self-conscious, set her heel very lightly on Lien Hua’s knee. Lien Hua gave her a raised eyebrow look, and then reoriented Lan Fan’s foot until her toes were pointed like a dancer’s. The smell of the nail polish bit at the air.

“I didn’t know the party was at the Caos,” Lan Fan said finally. Lien Hua had managed to get through three toes in smooth, slow strokes; not a molecule of the polish had dared drip. Lien Hua lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“I know you don’t like them,” she said, and leaned back to look at Lan Fan’s big toe again. “But don’t kill my fiancé yet. I need him.”

Lan Fan swallowed. Her tongue felt swollen, and prickly somehow. She licked her lips, and said, “Do you mind if I ask why?”

Lien Hua looked up at Lan Fan under her eyelashes for a moment, and then down at the little polish brush. “I already told you it’s to keep the peace between our families.”

She finished another toe. Lan Fan cocked her head. “I didn’t know the Cao were greedy for land,” she said. “They seem more preoccupied with fancy silks than in declaring war, at least, to me.”

“Oh, it’s not to keep blood from being spilt. Well, outside of metaphor.” Lien Hua dipped the brush back into the pot. “The Cao patriarch isn’t particularly forthcoming with his trade agreements. If I marry Aiguo, then we’ll be able to get a better economic cushion in the event that this drought lasts beyond what our alkahestrists expect. Which,” she added, “it has. All over western Xing. You mentioned it to Xiao Niao Song, I think.”

Lan Fan winced.

“You’re going to have to speak to her again, you know,” Lien Hua said after a moment, watching the polish dry. “She’s waiting to continue the subject until you’re well enough to return to Gathering events. It’s been almost a week since it began, which means there’s a week and a half left to thrash out nomad rights. If,” she added slyly, “you mean to do so.”

Lan Fan opened her mouth and then closed it again. Then, she said, “I can only speak for the Ma. Many of the tribes would not take kindly to being spoken for, especially not to the Emperor.” _And especially not by me._ “I can advise only those who are willing to be advised, and even then I can only speak of what I know.”

“So diplomatic,” said Lien Hua, and blew on Lan Fan’s big toe. It tickled. “Well, I know at least one person at court who would be willing to be advised by you, swallow-girl.”

Lan Fan frowned. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Don’t play coy with me. Not when the Emperor walks into Gathering functions with you on his arm.” Lien Hua picked up a second bottle, this one of black nail polish, and set to inking out little ivy-like patterns into the gold on Lan Fan’s big toe. Her hands were astoundingly steady. “I think you could tell him anything, and he would do it, swallow-girl. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“He doesn’t,” said Lan Fan, and she combed her hair out of the knot that Wen had twisted it up into. “He knows better. I have no more influence over what he does than—than a sea turtle does on the ocean tides.”

“So,” said Lien Hua, her eyebrows waggling, “you’re swept away by his tides?”

Arms around her waist, fingers in her hair. Silk and a fierce heartbeat under her palms. Lan Fan flushed red before she could stop herself, and couldn’t look Lien Hua in the eye. Lien Hua’s hand tightened against Lan Fan’s foot. “What?” Her eyes gleamed. “What happened? What’s happened that you haven’t told me about?”

“It’s nothing,” said Lan Fan, but her voice was hoarse. She thought the thick, oily taste of embarrassment was going to choke her. “Truly.”

“Liar,” said Lien Hua gleefully. “Something’s happened and you’re keeping it a secret. That’s not fair.”

“How is that not fair?” Lan Fan went to pull her foot back, but Lien Hua held tight.

“Other foot now,” she said, and, grumbling, Lan Fan obeyed. Lien Hua stirred the gold nail polish again. “Feiyan, surely you’ve realized that fresh gossip is more prized than dragonscales around here. If something happened—”

“ _Nothing_ happened,” Lan Fan said. She could still feel his breath on her hair. “I was—homesick. This morning. In the stables. The Emperor was kind to me. That’s _all_.”

“Kind like how kind?” Lien Hua added a second coat to Lan Fan’s big toe. “Kind like sweet nothings or kind like—”

“Don’t!” Lan Fan wailed, and hid her face in her hands. Her face was so hot it stung. When she peeked through her fingers, Lien Hua was smirking.

“That,” she said, “is the first time I’ve seen you act like a real court lady.”

“I did _not_ ,” said Lan Fan.

“You did.” Lien Hua tickled the sole of her foot. “Squealing like a stuck pig over a _boy—_ ”

“I’m not ticklish,” said Lan Fan, and kicked Lien Hua in the shin. “And the Emperor’s not a _boy—_ ”

“Not a _boy_ , then, do tell—”

“ _No_ —”

“Shut _up_!” Dong Mao roared from the main room. Lan Fan and Lien Hua goggled at each other. Then Lien Hua burst into giggles. Lan Fan fought against a smile, and lost; she ducked her head to hide it behind her hair.

“Don’t mind him,” said Lien Hua in a softer voice, still chortling under her breath. “He’s just nervous because he’s meeting up with his betrothed for the first time tonight. We had news from our uncle—she’s come all the way from Aerugo to learn more about Xing. She’s apparently quite incapable of speaking Xingese, even now.”

Lan Fan’s hands went still in her lap. Would Mengyao Feng really send a sensitive message along with an Aerugan noblewoman? Would she even know to give it to Dong Mao and the other triplets? Was it all a ruse, this incapability with Xingese? She made herself relax. “Poor Dong Mao,” she said after a moment. This was clearly the right answer; Lien Hua bent her head to the inky vines on Lan Fan’s toenails again. “What’s her name?”

“Caterina,” said Lien Hua, with an impeccable Aerugan accent. Her voice was clipped and flat. “Caterina della Babarigo. She’s the daughter of the Aerugan prime minister. It’s a very good match.”

“I’m sure,” said Lan Fan, and fiddled with the Firebrand medallion at her throat. “Who else is coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t organize it. Chen will be. I don’t Xinzhe would ever forgive him if he ditched. A few minor Chang, like your bodyguard,” she added, waggling her eyebrows again, and Lan Fan fought the urge to kick her hard. “I think some of the Song girls are coming, and a lot of the Xie. Probably more Yao, but lesser cousins.” She eyed Lan Fan. “I suppose you’ll sit in the corner with Chen again and chatter away about something dolefully academic while the rest of us drink ourselves into a stupor?”

Lan Fan shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, this party is one you’re not leaving sober,” said Lien Hua firmly. “Not if I have anything to say about it. In the past week, you’ve nearly died from a poisoned arrow, had the Empress try to scratch your face off, and almost saw someone executed. If you don’t drink yourself into unconsciousness, then I’m not doing my duty.”

“Your duty as what?” Lan Fan asked.

“Well, your friend. Or,” she added, a touch of a cyanide smile tugging at her lips, “as the spirit-appointed protector of your sanity. Whichever you prefer. Other foot.”

Lan Fan switched her feet out, setting the first gingerly on the floor so as not to smear the paint. “Friend is probably better than protector,” she said. “I don’t know if sanity is something you keep very well at court.”

“Oh, rubbish. You can stay perfectly sane if you remember that it’s all for the taking.” Lien Hua sighed. “Now shut up, swallow-girl. If you keep talking, I’ll muss your ivy.”

Lan Fan leaned her head back against the chair, and shut up.

After her toenails were dried, it was fairly easy to finish setting it all up. The dress—Lien Hua had called it a ‘flapper’ in accented Amestrian—was much easier to get into than the last one, since it zipped up the side and not up the back, and now that she knew how to work the shoes and stockings she could do it on her own, without Wen coaching her through it. The makeup was simpler, too—dark, heavy lipstick and _lidschatten_ and not much else. Niu Lu hadn’t wanted to irritate the cut by layering foundation onto it, so Lan Fan had just left it untouched. It looked like she’d been scratched by a large cat, she thought. If anyone asked she could say she’d caught her face on a nail out at the stables. Jian Zhang would back her up if anyone asked, she knew that much.

She tugged at the end of the flapper dress, and frowned. She’d seen dresses similar to this in Amestris when she’d been waiting for her arm to heal—at least, she’d seen dresses that were _longer_ than this, but along the same general pattern and style. A square neckline with thick straps over the shoulders, the dress _clung_ —it was more like a tube than anything else, with ebony beads sewn in layered patterns across the front and back to catch the light. The hem came down just past the middle of her thighs; little black icicles of beads hung an inch or two further down to create a shimmering wave of motion. There was a small, seamed slit on the right side, so she could walk, but it went up terrifyingly high. Lan Fan had to fight the urge to cover it with her palm.

The stockings were tinted one shade darker than her actual skin-tone—matched to Lien Hua’s, not hers—but it helped mask the bruises a little, and the heels (black, open at the toe; the only word she could come up with was _strappy_ ) added four inches to her height. Lien Hua had put gold streaks in her hair again. She hadn’t realized until the green of the jade mixed with the gold in her hair that Lien Hua had dressed her up in the colors of an imperial Yao.

Her stomach churned.

“Armor,” she said to herself again. Court armor. Maybe women’s armor. But wasn’t that the whole point of _Tomiko’s Letters_ , to say that women could and should dress how they like, work how they like, marry how they like, and behave how they liked, and still be women, and powerful, and worthy? So, not women’s armor, but…She fingered the earring again, considering. Court armor. Society armor. She needed all the defenses she could get, now that she was Feiyan Ma. Just Feiyan Ma. _Only_ Feiyan Ma. She had nothing more to hide, now. No job, no family, no duty. After the end of the week, and her name was blotted out of the Dawn Emperor’s records, there would be nothing of Lan Fan Huo left at all.

_Except me._

There was nothing that could be done about it, she told herself, tugging at the hem of her dress. There had been no time, no warning, and now there was no way to recover it. Her life was gone, and she would grieve for it, but here, now, was neither the place nor the time. For now, she had to be Feiyan Ma, because there was a meeting she had to spy on, and a Feng plot to be uncovered.

The sense of it came over her like the first flush of a sunrise, creeping and bright. She might not be able to be Lan Fan Huo, but she could be Feiyan Ma. She could be the person who had been sculpted to be the Emperor’s eyes in a place he couldn’t see, and solve this problem that had sunk its thorns into her, deeper than she’d ever realized, and then she could grieve. Then she could figure out a plan.

She stared at herself in the mirror. “Feiyan Ma,” she said. “You are _Feiyan Ma_.”

This time, she left off the shawl.

For once, Xinzhe was absent, and Dong Mao was not. He was sharpening the blade of the spear she’d found in his room, the night the Gathering had opened—he glanced up from the metal, and paused for a moment, the whetstone going still in his hands. Then he looked back down at his spear again, and coughed. She wasn’t quite sure why. On the other side of the room, Lien Hua was looking through her books one last time; she turned, and her mouth curled into a satisfied smile.

“Good. It fits.” She fixed the strap on Lan Fan’s shoulder, where the scars of her automail couldn’t quite be hidden, and nodded. “No shawl?”

There was an odd undertone to the question. Lan Fan chased it, but couldn’t quite work it out. “No shawl,” she confirmed, and Lien Hua’s fingers slid down the metal of her arm to her wrist before she turned away.

“Well, be cold, then, swallow-girl. I’m not going to help you.” She prodded Dong Mao in the thigh with the heel of her pointed shoe. “Go get your jacket. And put the spear away. Out of all of us, you _definitely_ have to make it to this meeting; I’m not letting you slouch your way out at midnight like last time.”

Dong Mao swore under his breath, but sheathed his spear again, and vanished into his room. Out of the corner of her eye, Lan Fan spotted Chang studying his toes. He hadn’t looked up once since she’d entered the room. She hesitated, and then decided to ignore it—if Chang was uncomfortable with the Fengs, then she wasn’t about to draw attention to him.

“What is this party, anyway?” she asked, leaning against the side of the bookcase. She wished she could wear one of her hidden blades, but the dress was too tight for that; she had managed to repurpose a dagger to strap around her thigh, but it was only just barely hidden. Anyone worth their salt would be able to pick it out. After due thought, she’d added the emeici she’d stolen from Huli’s dead partner to her hair—it would keep it up and out of the way, and at least she’d have something sharp within easy reach. And she had her forearm blade back, of course. “You never said.”

Lien Hua lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s to ease the stress of the Gathering, I think. Some of the families have been having a hard time this year.” She gave Lan Fan a sideways look. “It’s been fairly tense for a lot of us, especially since there are so many houses who are training their replacements for the next Gathering, in two years’ time. You know how our uncle sent us up here to take his place, because he’s ill?”

“You said that.”

“It’s happening for a lot of other families, too. Not illness, but the next generation.” She picked up a shawl made of Feng green lace, and swept it around her shoulders. “So we’re dealing with it. Come on. We’re going to be late. Dong Mao!”

Lien Hua vanished into Dong Mao’s room. Lan Fan edged closer to Chang, and said, “Sorry about this.”

Chang cleared his throat. “What does my lady have to be sorry for?”

“This.” She waved her hand at the Feng apartments. “And all of it. I know you have better things to do.”

“This one was requested to serve as my lady’s bodyguard,” said Chang woodenly. “My lady is this one’s only charge.”

Lan Fan blinked. Then she glanced back over her shoulder at Wen, and touched Chang lightly on the elbow before stepping away from him again. Relief rolled off him like a tidal wave, and she let out a short breath. He wasn’t angry with her, then, just keeping up appearances. She fought the urge to rub her eyelids (if she smeared her _lidschatten_ Niu Lu would kill her) and took a spot against the wall, folding her hands behind her back. Xinzhe was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if they were going to meet him at the party or if he was going to find them on the way. Or if he was coming at all.

“My lady Ma,” said Chang, suddenly. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and then looked down at his rifle again. Lan Fan turned to look at him, but he couldn’t meet her gaze. “This one—I think you look very nice, my lady.”

Lan Fan blinked. Chang’s ears were turning red. She swallowed hard, and stared at her painted toes. Her mouth was dry, suddenly, like she’d been returned to Xerxes. Like she had never left the desert. Lan Fan opened her mouth, but in the same moment, the door to the Feng apartments slid open, and Xinzhe (dressed in a tuxedo, hair slicked back with oil) hooked an arm around her waist, tugged her in close, and laid a smacking kiss on her cheek. He smelled like rice wine and some kind of spice. “My darling Feiyan Ma,” he said, “what on earth are you doing in that ratty old thing?”

Lan Fan laid a hand flat against his chest and shoved. “Like you care what I wear. What on earth have you been drinking?”

He laid a thumb to his chin, considering it. His other hand was still tight on her hip, and she suddenly realized that she was the only thing keeping him upright. “Don’t know. Too many different things to remember. But now I’m drinking _you_ in, and it’s making me fright—full—awful drunk.” He made a face at her. “Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving,” she said in a low voice. His _qi_ -sense felt fuzzy, slurred almost. She hadn’t known you could drink so much it changed the way the _qi_ ran through your body. She glanced at Chang, and then wrapped her arm around Xinzhe’s waist. He flinched like she’d hit a bruise. “Xinzhe, did something happen?”

“You _always_ ask that,” Xinzhe said, and pouted. “Nothin’ _happened_. Just met some old friends is all.” He rocked on his feet. “Where’s m’sister?”

“Here,” said Lien Hua, and came out into the main room. Her face was terrifyingly blank as she looked up at Xinzhe, lips pursing. “What on earth have you done to yourself this time?”

Xinzhe wobbled, and peered at his sister as if he could only see her from a very great distance Finally, he rocked into Lan Fan, hard enough that she had to stumble and said, “Nothin’.”

“Nothing,” said Lien Hua, in a voice like chips of glass. “Of course you’ve done nothing. You’ve always done nothing. You always _do_ nothing, for yourself or for anyone else.”

Xinzhe hiccupped, still smiling, but his fingers were shaking at Lan Fan’s hip.

“You aren’t even going to say anything?” Lien Hua snapped, and color began to flare bright in her cheeks. “You know we have the party tonight. You can’t show up drunk, not after what happened last time.”

“What happened last time,” said Xinzhe, and giggled. “ _Chen_ knows what happened last time.”

Lan Fan drew a sharp breath in spite of herself, and Lien Hua noticed. Damn it, but Lien Hua noticed, and her eyes narrowed a little. Then she went back to glaring at Xinzhe, and she slapped her brother lightly on the cheek. “Wen will get you a sobering remedy,” she said. “And she’ll be sure to make it kick like a horse. You’ll meet us at the party in an hour. You will not argue. And if this happens again, I will make it clear to Uncle Mengyao that you will be returning home before you embarrass the rest of us beyond repair.”

With that, she swept past Xinzhe and out the door, head held high as a queen’s. Dong Mao scoffed under his breath and followed. Xinzhe flinched as he passed. Finally, it was just Lan Fan and Chang left, and Xinzhe turned to loop his arms around Lan Fan’s neck.

“Feiyan, you’re not going, are you?”

“I have to,” said Lan Fan. “Your sister invited me. Sit down, Xinzhe.”

“Mgh.” He dropped down hard on her feet. Lan Fan fought back a swearword, and wondered if he was actually going to let go of her. His arms were wrapped around her legs now. Her heart twisted in her chest. She’d thought him drunk at the opening ceremony, but he’d spoken the truth, then. He hadn’t been drunk. _This_ was Xinzhe drunk, and it was hurting her somewhere deep inside. He brushed his cheek over her kneecap, and closed his eyes. “I hate it here, Feiyan.”

“I hate it here too,” she told him, and pried his hands off her legs. Xinzhe looked up at her with wide eyes.

“That’s why we like you so much. You hate it and you don’t _care_.” He hiccupped. “You’re the only one who doesn’t care. Other than me. ‘cause you hate them too.”

Lan Fan swallowed. Then she crouched, and tucked Xinzhe’s mussed hair behind his ear. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to your room. Can you stand?”

“Wanted me to sit,” he said, puzzled. Lan Fan seized him by the wrists.

“And now I want you to stand. Chang, help me.”

“No point,” Xinzhe moaned, as Chang came around to Xinzhe’s other side. “No point. None of it, no _point_.” He blinked at Lan Fan with bleary eyes. “Cities’ve fallen and there’s nothin’ we can do, Feiyan. They’ll burn us to the ground.”

Lan Fan nearly dropped him. Chang didn’t. Xinzhe wobbled on his feet, falling back into Chang with a thump and a yelp of “Why do you have _armor_ on?” She wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt, and then drew Xinzhe’s arm over her shoulder. “Xinzhe,” she said, and he rocked his head around to look at her again. “Who’s going to burn it down?”

He laughed. “’sgone,” he said. “’sall gone. Don’t tell Lien Hua. But I already told her and she was so _mad_.”

“Xinzhe, what—”

Xinzhe turned green. “’m gonna puke.”

Together, they managed to heave Xinzhe into his room. He was already half-unconscious by the time they laid him out on the bed. Lan Fan took his shoes off for him, passed a hand over his forehead, and then told Wen to keep a close eye on him before she darted to catch up with Dong Mao and Lien Hua. She’d thought they would leave without her, but instead they were waiting at the end of the hall, Lien Hua rubbing her thumb over one of her jade bracelets. She perked up when Lan Fan came out of the Feng rooms, but she didn’t say anything about Xinzhe; she just hooked her arm through Lan Fan’s and said, “Time to go, then.”

“Yes,” said Lan Fan. Dong Mao was watching her again. It made the skin on the back of her neck prickle unpleasantly. “Time to go.”

Instead of the carriage, Dong Mao led the way to the Zhuquemen, where there was an actual car waiting for them. It was a very shiny Tugran imported straight from Aerugo, painted Feng-green, with ivory-colored wheels and lacquer capping off the stick shift. “The 1919 model,” said Lien Hua proudly, tracing her hands over the metal as if caressing a lover.

“I didn’t know you had an automobile,” said Lan Fan, fighting the urge to peer into the motor. Behind them, she could feel Chang thrumming with excitement, his _qi_ -signature buzzing like a hummingbird inside his skin. Lien Hua smiled.

“We’re the only one of the Fifty Families who does. Well,” she amended, “aside from the Emperor. But the Yaos don’t count. “Uncle Mengyao bullied them out of the newest model a year early, considering _la bella Caterina_.”

“We’re going to be late,” Dong Mao snapped, and vaulted into the driver’s seat, shifting out of park. “Get in.”

“Brute,” sniffed Lien Hua, and took the passenger side. Lan Fan clambered over into the backseat, trying to keep her skirt from riding up to her waist, and fought back the memories of the last time she’d been in a car—bleeding, near-blindfolded, her master wandering off into the forest with the Elric brothers, not to be found again for months—

His hand in her hair, breath close against her cheek, the feel of his heartbeat under her fingers—

She shook her head fiercely, and smoothed her skirt down over her legs again.

The Cao manor was one of the most prosperous (and preposterous) in Zhuque, exceeded only by the Wang (the family of the God-Emperor, the first Emperor of Xing) and the Huang, who had made a lot of money in silkworms over the centuries, even if they couldn’t exactly afford the upkeep anymore after the Cao had stolen the industry out from under their noses. The house was massive, and the gates were flanked by two Cao phoenixes, dual-headed with flickering tongues and viper-like tails. Lien Hua wrinkled her nose as they blazed past them.

“I’m going to have that on my _face_ ,” she said under her breath. Dong Mao ignored her. Lan Fan cleared her throat.

“Do all Caos have that tattoo?”

“All of them old enough to not stretch the ink,” said Lien Hua. “Everyone who marries into the family and takes the Cao name gets the tattoo alongside it, two weeks before their wedding.” She frowned, and twisted in her seat to look at Lan Fan. “You have one, don’t you?”

“A Cao phoenix?”

“A tattoo. I thought I saw one.” She gestured vaguely at Lan Fan’s waist. “There.”

“Oh.” She thought of the yin-yang on her hip, the smell of peaches, the look on her grandfather’s face as they waited for the Huo family artist to set down his bone needles and pronounce her finished. “Yes. I had it done years ago, now.”

“Did it hurt?”

Lan Fan considered lying, and then decided that it was pointless. “It’s a needle in your skin. Of course it’s going to hurt.”

“Of course,” Lien Hua parroted, and turned to stare at the passing road again. She’d been quiet since they’d left Xinzhe. Lan Fan glanced back down at her hands, and folded them in her lap, saying nothing. Dong Mao shifted into another gear, and pulled them into a spinning turn that stopped neat as a knife at the entrance to the Cao household. The servants at the doors looked as if they’d had spitting cobras dropped into their pants. One of them, a boy of about sixteen, finally stepped forward.

“Your highness,” he said, and bowed to Dong Mao and Lien Hua. He ignored Lan Fan entirely. “Shall I take your automobile to the stables?”

“No,” Dong Mao snapped, and popped open the door. “It’ll get horse shit all over it.”

“Put it around the back,” Lien Hua said, “by the statues.”

The boy bowed, and stepped back out of their way. Lan Fan clambered out of the car without a word, walking as fast as she dared to catch up with Lien Hua. Her shoes were higher than the last pair she’d worn, the heels thinner and sharper. It was like balancing on knife points. Lien Hua turned to wait for her, but Dong Mao just kept marching.

“We’re announcing it tonight,” said Lien Hua suddenly, as she linked arms with Lan Fan again, and they passed through the main gate.

“Announcing what?”

“The engagement.” She cut Lan Fan a sideways look. “Aiguo and me.”

“Oh,” said Lan Fan. She could hear the sounds of the party now. Another servant bowed them into the building, which was layered all over with the Cao gold and their two-headed phoenixes. It actually hurt Lan Fan’s eyes. “I didn’t know.”  

Lien Hua hummed under her breath. “We were going to wait, but there have been extenuating circumstances.”

Extenuating circumstances? _Cities’ve fallen and there’s nothin’ we can do, Feiyan. They’ll burn us to the ground._ Another part of their work against the Emperor? Or something else?

Lien Hua’s nails curled into Lan Fan’s elbow. “You’re not angry, are you?”

“Why would I be angry?” said Lan Fan, puzzled. Lien Hua glanced at her again.

“You hate Aiguo.”

“I think he’s a disgusting little sadist,” said Lan Fan, ignoring the expression on the face of one of the footmen. Feiyan Ma was already well-known for plain speaking. What were a few insults? “But you’ve already told me why you’re doing it. So why would I be angry for you fulfilling your part?”

Lien Hua blinked, and then stared. Then the corners of her mouth turned up. “Maybe you’re finally learning about court after all.”

The party was being held in one of the many courtyards that had been distributed throughout their mansion grounds. “ _Crescent Moon Plaza_ ,” Lien Hua hissed in her ear as they came to the gate; the music was so loud it was making Lan Fan’s ribs vibrate. Something about it seemed…faster than the party she’d been to at the Chang estate. The tang of sweat bit at her nose as Dong Mao led them into the crowd, and people actually parted to get out of their way. It was the difference between sneaking in and being openly welcomed, Lan Fan thought, watching a few minor Cao grin and go to whisper behind their hands. Lien Hua held her head high, her shoulders back, slinking through the gap in the crowd like a cat. Her hand was absolutely still on Lan Fan’s arm.

Aiguo and Heng were holding court in the center of the courtyard, on a series of benches that had been set up around a round table with a hole in the center, like a coin. It was lacquered with more phoenixes. _If I ever see another Cao phoenix,_ she thought, _it’ll be too soon._ Aiguo’s face was still a little swollen from where Lien Hua had struck him on the night of the Gathering’s opening ceremonies. His mouth twisted a little at the sight of Lan Fan, but he waved an indolent hand. “Lien Hua,” he said. “Not a trio tonight?”

“Xinzhe will be here later,” said Lien Hua. She slid away from Lan Fan and settled herself under Aiguo’s arm, her smile pure acid. “What are you drinking?”

“Snake wine. We had it imported.” Aiguo gestured to a servant, who immediately poured another cup of the clear wine for each of them. Neither Dong Mao nor Lan Fan had been offered a place to sit, and the rest of the couches were full. The Lu girls from the Sevens Race were back and giggling, but they went abruptly silent when they realized that Lan Fan was standing there. “You’ll try it, of course. Dong Mao.”

“Cao,” said Dong Mao, and crossed his arms over his chest. Aiguo smiled, and his eyes settled on Lan Fan.

“Horse-wife.”

Lan Fan grit her teeth, and ducked her head. “Aiguo Cao,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve spoken since the Sevens Race.”

“No, we haven’t.” Aiguo gave her a long, considering look, his eyes skipping from her face to her breasts to her legs. Lan Fan did not smile. “Will you sit down? You haven’t tasted snake wine before, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.” Lan Fan eyed the couches. “But it seems there’s nowhere free.”

“Ah, well.” Aiguo shrugged. “Your loss. Dong Mao?”

Dong Mao scoffed, and stalked away without a word. Lien Hua seemed to be fighting back a smile at the expression on Aiguo’s face—he looked almost deflated, like a balloon that had a hole in the seam. He sighed. “Everyone’s a critic. You’ll have some, won’t you, Lien Hua?”

Lan Fan excused herself without comment.

The dancers were packed close together, like mosaic tiles. Lan Fan shoved her way through after Dong Mao, circling the courtyard. There were a thousand places assassins for the Feng could lurk, she thought disgustedly. This was why she hated courtyards, especially those with open roofs. Anyone could slip in and out without a trace, and it wouldn’t be realized until the deed was done. And she _wasn’t_ , she told herself firmly, considering that because she was Lan Fan Huo. She was considering that as someone who had already fended off one Firebrand assassin, and didn’t particularly want to do so again.

The moon rose slowly in the sky. Lan Fan traipsed through the party once, and then again, ignoring the alcohol. If Lien Hua wanted to get her drunk, she was going to have to pour the snake wine down Lan Fan’s throat herself. She felt Mingli Chen arrive about half an hour in, but he was caught up in a conversation with a few lesser Yao, and she didn’t dare interrupt. Xinzhe arrived half an hour after that, his _qi_ -signature steadied, though still a little fuzzy. She shoved her way past a couple sprawled across a bench, battling with tongues, and then jerked in surprise. Dong Mao Feng (his signature masked—no wonder she hadn’t realized it was him) was leaning against a pillar six feet away, watching her with narrowed eyes. Lan Fan slowed to a stop, and glanced at the opposite side of the pillar.

“Can I stand here?”

Dong Mao gave her a look, and then turned his face away. Lan Fan decided that wasn’t a no, and leaned against the pillar, careful to keep her elbow from brushing his. Chang was about half a dozen feet off, watching a gaggle of giggling Xie boys fall into one of the flower beds. She folded her hands and leaned her head back to look up at the stars.

“It’s louder than the last one,” she said after a moment. They were standing close together, but she still had to raise her voice before he turned his head in acknowledgment. “Do you know where the Cao found the musicians?”

“No,” said Dong Mao shortly, and stared off into the crowd again. Lan Fan licked her lips, forgetting about the lipstick. It tasted chalky on her tongue.

“Are you all right?” She smoothed her hands over her thighs, trying to straighten her dress. “You look angry.”

“What do you want, Ma?” said Dong Mao suddenly, and pulled away from the pillar to glare at her. She could feel his _qi_ -senses writhing against her barriers, as if he was trying to force his way in. “Don’t think I didn’t see you circling like that. Were you trying to work up the nerve to get information out of me?”

 _Yes, actually,_ Lan Fan thought, _amongst other things_ , but she kept her face quizzical. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” Dong Mao snapped. “You need something from us. You wouldn’t still be here otherwise. Xinzhe and Lien Hua might be naïve enough to believe this act you’re putting on, but I’m not. What is it you really want from us?”

Her heart leaped up into her mouth, and stayed there. Lan Fan swallowed, and brushed her fingers over the hem of her borrowed dress. The beads were chilly against her skin. She could sense Mingli Chen edging towards them, trying to force his way through the crowd. Finally, she sighed, and leaned her head back against the pillar to look at Dong Mao.

“What I want is nothing the Fengs can give me,” she said. Dong Mao’s eyebrows lifted.

“You expect me to believe that.”

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” she said, and squeezed her hands together behind her back. “All I want—all I _really_ want is to go back home, to the way it was before. But time only ever moves forward. We can’t go back.” She shrugged. “So here I am.”

Dong Mao searched her face. Then he took a step closer, two, and reached forward to catch her jaw in one hand. Lan Fan stayed absolutely still, staring at him without blinking as Chang’s hand dropped to one of his blades. Her heart was pounding. Dong Mao stared at her for so long she thought he’d strangle her. Then he dropped his hand, and blinked once. His eyebrows were heavier than Xinzhe’s, she realized. A copied portrait with harsher lines. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit.

“They trust you,” he said. “My brother and sister. I thought they’d get bored of you ages ago, but they didn’t.”

Lan Fan let her hands relax, and fought back the urge to bare one of her blades. “What about you?” she asked.

Dong Mao glanced over his shoulder at the Caos. “I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “Not even them. The most I’ll trust anyone is at about seventy-five percent.” He cut his eyes back to her. “You’re at ten.”

“Ma,” said Mingli Chen, and he finally burst out of the crowd. Xinzhe was traipsing along at his heels. He had one hand to his temple, rubbing as if he had a headache. Two women followed close behind. One was Xingese, small and lithe, her hair daringly cut to her jaw; she wore a man’s _tongzhuang_ and long, loose trousers that fluttered around her legs. The second woman, Lan Fan realized, had to be Caterina della Babarigo. She was tall, her shoulders broad, and her red hair was a riot of curls pinned up in a cascade. She was also very fat. Her eyes (hazel, like Al’s but with less gold) flickered from one triplet to the other, and her mouth twisted into a moue of confusion. She leaned forward, and whispered something in the Xingese woman’s ear in Aerugan. Lan Fan only caught “—which one—” before the roar of the crowd drowned out the rest.

“There you are,” said Mingli, and nodded once to Chang before coming to stand next to Lan Fan. His eyes flickered between Caterina, Dong Mao, and the Xingese woman without stopping, and it was only when he stopped moving that she realized he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “And Dong Mao. We were looking for you. We couldn’t find Lien Hua.”

Dong Mao stepped away from Lan Fan, and folded his hands neatly behind his back. Lan Fan glanced at him, and then smiled at Mingli. “She’s with the Caos,” she said. “You might not want to go see her. Aiguo’s drinking snake wine.”

Mingli made a face. “Ah.”

Xinzhe smirked. It looked forced. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little swollen. She wondered if it was from the headache or from the alcohol. “My darling brother,” he said. “Aren’t you going to greet your fiancée?”

“I don’t speak Aerugan,” Dong Mao grunted. Xinzhe threw his head back and laughed.

“You took the classes same as the rest of us, even if you’re wretched at it. You could at least say hello. After all—” He leaned forward to whisper in Lan Fan’s ear. “She can’t speak a _word_ of Xingese. Only Aerugan and a bit of Amestrian, poor dear. Like a fat little puppy led to the slaughter.”

“Don’t be cruel,” said Lan Fan, and glanced at Dong Mao again. Caterina’s eyes snapped between Xinzhe and Dong Mao like she was watching a tennis match. The Xingese woman with the short hair had her eyes quite firmly on the ground. Finally, Dong Mao cleared his throat, and angled into a bow.

“ _Signora_.”

“ _Signorina_ ,” Xinzhe corrected in a sing-song voice, looking all too pleased with himself. Caterina looked to the short-haired woman, and then she curtsied back to Dong Mao, her knees quaking under her.

“It is an honor,” she said, in a trembling voice, “to meet the man who will become my husband,”

The Xingese woman nodded, and then repeated what she’d said in the Feng dialect. A translator, then. A bodyguard, also, Lan Fan thought, catching sight of the knives hidden under the woman’s sleeves and the pistol at the small of her back. Personally she thought it unlikely that Caterina della Babarigo—daughter of the prime minister, a court-gem if there ever was one—would actually be in any blatant danger from anyone at court, but it was a sensible notion nonetheless. She glanced back at Dong Mao, who hadn’t budged an inch, and then at Xinzhe, who was still laughing behind his hand, before she held out both hands to Caterina della Babarigo.

“It is nice to meet you,” she said, keeping her Amestrian halting. Caterina’s eyes lit up, and she caught Lan Fan’s hands like a lifeline. Her palms were warm and slightly sweaty, the rings cutting into her fingers. The bodyguard gave Lan Fan a sharp look, and then glanced at Dong Mao before lowering her eyes again.

“You speak Amestrian! _Grazie, grazie_ —what of my fiancé, does he—”

“I speak a little,” said Lan Fan. Her tongue twisted on the old syllables. “Dong Mao does not.”

Caterina’s face fell a bit. “Dong Mao,” she repeated, and then, speaking more slowly, added, “Does this mean husband?”

Lan Fan shook her head. “It is his name,” she said, and gestured over her shoulder. “Dong Mao,” she said, and then pointed to each of them and named them in turn, herself last. Caterina repeated the names with a sort of childlike solemnity that reminded Lan Fan of Drea Brock in Rush Valley. She fumbled the tones and couldn’t quite get her mouth to cooperate with Xinzhe’s name, but she tried, and it counted. Out of the corner of her eye Lan Fan could see Mingli watching them carefully.

“I don’t understand,” said Caterina. “Are you another sister? Oh, they all look so alike, I don’t know—”

“I am a friend,” said Lan Fan. Then, on impulse, she added, “Perhaps we can practice, together? Amestrian—” she pointed at herself “—and Xingese.” She pointed at Caterina this time. “Maybe?”

Caterina squeezed her hand so hard that her rings pressed stung against Lan Fan’s fingers. “Yes,” she said, desperately. “Yes, please. Yes. I would like that.”

Lan Fan smiled gamely, and looked at Mingli Chen, slipping back into Xingese. “You don’t mind if she joins the teaching sessions, do you? She needs to learn about the court too, and she wants to learn Xingese.”

Mingli glanced at Xinzhe, then at Dong Mao. Neither of them said anything. He shrugged. “She’s welcome if she wants to come. I can’t speak a word of Amestrian or Aerugan, though. You’ll have to teach her yourself.”

Something else to handle. Lan Fan about swallowed her tongue, and then forced the smile back onto her face. “All right.”

“Lotus will be jealous,” said Xinzhe after a moment, and tugged at one of the hanging beads on the back of Lan Fan’s dress. “Won’t you, Lotus?”

“This one does not know what you mean, your highness,” said the short-haired woman. Her voice was high and sweet. “This one is eager to help however possible.”

“Lotus,” said Dong Mao, and she snapped to attention. Without looking at any of them, he slipped neatly into old Ishvalan, a language Lan Fan hadn’t heard in so long that she nearly jumped at the sound of it. She turned her back on Dong Mao and Lotus, pretending to pay attention to the sudden chatter between Xinzhe and Mingli about tutoring times and linguistic differences. Caterina hadn’t yet let go of her hand. “Did you bring it?”

Lotus didn’t look up from the ground. “I brought the message from your uncle, my lord. Would you like it now, or later?”

“Now.” Dong Mao paused. “What of my mother?”

“Well as can be expected, my lord. She keeps to her bed. The turn from fall to winter has always been difficult for her. You know this.”

Dong Mao swore under his breath. “Is there any news of the cities that have fallen into Trener’s control?”

Lan Fan squeezed Caterina’s hand hard enough to make the Aerugan girl twitch.

“None, my lord.” She paused. “What of your work here? I must send a falcon to my lord Mengyao this evening.”

“The Cao are settled. Tell my uncle that we are nearly in place, despite horsehair in the gears. We have already been invited to join the court at the Pubuchuan winter residence. The rest shouldn’t be too difficult once the Gathering is done.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Dong Mao!” Xinzhe rocked into Mingli’s side. Lan Fan wondered if she imagined the ghost of Xinzhe’s hand over Mingli’s hip. “What on earth are you muttering about over there? Nobody likes a secret-keeper.”

“Lotus was reporting on the state of things in Feng-guo,” said Dong Mao, and folded his arms across his chest. “Which you ought to care about.”

“Why talk about duties and responsibilities when your _lovely_ new bride is here waiting for your attention?” Xinzhe clicked his tongue. “Shame on you, brother.”

Dong Mao snorted. “You could do to learn from me.”

“Dong Mao,” Xinzhe said again, and when Dong Mao cocked his head in a question, Xinzhe raised his voice. He spoke in Old Ishvalan too, his eyes bright, mouth twisting into a smile. “Remember,” he said. “The Dowager dies first.”

The world rocked under her feet. Dong Mao and Xinzhe stared at each other, and then Dong Mao nodded once, and the conversation was over. The party buzzed in her ears as if it was coming from very far away. Lan Fan licked her lips, swallowed hard, and bared her teeth in a false smile.

“Does anyone want punch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys.
> 
> Apologies for the super-long space between updates. I've been going through a lot of familial problems (my baby cousin died, among other things) and it's been very hard for me to write.
> 
> I hope to update soon, but who knows.
> 
> SotB is NOT on hiatus, though, so don't worry. It just might take a while.


	21. Longbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you keep that secret, too? Will you take on all of our secrets eventually, swallow-girl? Turn into a walking safe house for all of our sins?”
> 
> Lan Fan swallowed. “I hope not. That sounds uncomfortable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explanation at the end of the chapter.
> 
> This chapter I introduce my beta, the endlessly fabulous V! She's great and I love her (also she worked her ASS off to get this chapter to you guys so quickly, I only sent it to her this morning [!]).
> 
>  **Character List:**  
>  **Lan Fan Huo** , AKA **Feiyan Ma** , who is picking herself up, dusting herself off, and heading in to kick butt.  
>  **Ling Yao** , the poor angsty fucker. Also, coincidentally, Emperor of Xing.  
>  **Shan Yao** , Commander of the Imperial Guard, Ling's cousin, and kind of a ghost the past ten chapters or so. He's coming back in a big way, though.  
>  **Suyin Yao** , Shan Yao's wife, a steppes nomad, and a pregnant badass.  
>  **Niu Lu** , a half-Xingese alkahestrist and Lan Fan's maidservant (sort of).  
>  **Xiao Niao Song** , Governor of Song-guo, leader of the matriarchal Song clan.  
>  **Xiao Huan, Xiao Liu, and Xiao Xie** , her daughters. Xiao Huan is an alkahestrist, Xiao Liu in training to be guard commander of the Song, and Xiao Xie is currently unapprenticed.  
>  **Huian Yao** , Dowager Empress, and the lady everyone hates. (SHE HAS REASONS OKAY)  
>  **Lien Hua Feng** , an imperial cousin, and Lan Fan's friend (?).
> 
> Introducing (last OCs!):  
>  **Bao Zhang** , the reclusive Minister of the Right. He manages economic and fiscal policies for both the palace and the empire.  
>  **Yue** , Bao Zhang's primary assistant (her title being First Chancellor). A mathematical genius and basically Zhang's babysitter. (He's the sort who would burn hot water.) 
> 
> **Chapter Soundtrack** (if nobody cares about this I might just stop doing it, it's getting to be a pain to find things):  
> 不安な気持ち // _The Secret World of Arietty_ OST  
>  Hannibal Chau // _Pacific Rim_ OST  
>  Cursed Seiyankyou // _Okami_ OST

**Twenty: Longbow**

“You’re certain that’s what he said.”

Lan Fan had to bite her tongue to keep from snarling. It had taken her an hour to get into the Commander’s rooms without anybody seeing—not that she’d had to, considering, but she’d only thought about that _after_ she’d managed to sneak in. Another full hour before Shan Yao and Suyin had actually returned (thanks to the note she’d had Niu Lu drop off during his morning meetings): if there was anything she _didn’t_ have, it was time. “I’m certain. I’m out of practice with Old Ishvalan, but I’m not inept. There are only so many ways to conjugate _mori_.”

Suyin snorted. When Shan turned to look at her, she hid her nose and mouth behind her hand, her eyes crinkling a little. Lan Fan flushed red— _when did I start losing control of my tongue around the Commander?_ —and stared at the floor. “I apologize. I didn’t sleep last night.”

Outside, rain fell in gentle patterns across the tile paths through the gardens. The jade earrings Lien Hua had given her hung heavy against her neck. Lan Fan hooked her fingers into the chain of the firebrand medallion, and peeked at the Commander. He glowered at her from underneath his heavy eyebrows. Then the corner of his mouth lifted, and he was the boy she’d had shoving contests with as a child, the one who’d crowed when the first few hairs had sprouted on his chin and knocked her over the head with etiquette books. “Apology accepted.”

Lan Fan nodded, and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. It was falling out of the pattern that Wen had woven it in, hanging haphazardly around her shoulders. It needed cutting, she thought. “Yes, I’m certain that’s what he said. Whatever the Fengs are doing, it involves the Dowager, and Xinzhe wants her dead. I don’t know why, there could be any number of reasons—”

“And that’s only if you take the obvious ones into account—” Suyin muttered, her hand brushing against the curve of her belly.

“—but they’re relying on Pubuchuan for some reason. They didn’t say anything else about it. And I didn’t hear which cities had fallen to the firestarters, either.”

Shan waved his hand. “Princess Chang brought that to our attention. Dong Mao and Xinzhe were seen meeting in secret in Xuanwu.”

“About what?”

Shan and Suyin exchanged a long look. For a moment, Lan Fan thought they weren’t going to say anything— _good; if I’m caught, I’d best not know everything_. Then Suyin sighed, and folded her hands in her lap, looking every inch the neat court lady. Lan Fan wondered when she’d molded herself so perfectly in their image, how she’d managed it. Suyin, after all, had _actually_ come from the steppes. How she’d copied courtly ways so perfectly was a mystery. “According to Princess Chang, the firebrands have been shipping weapons into Feng-guo.”

Lan Fan’s guts clenched, limed in frost. Her mind spun. “How many?”

“Over seventy-thousand, if her calculations are correct.” Shan cracked his knuckles. “You heard nothing of this from the Fengs?”

“When I first saw Xinzhe last night he was too drunk to stand properly. He talked about things burning. The weapons? And the cities?”

“Most likely.”

Her mouth tasted like paper. Lan Fan licked her lips. “Will it be an uprising?”

Shan shook his head. “These men are untrained and untutored. If they’re planning one, we’ll be able to stop it before it starts, now. We have some idea of where they are, or we will once we hear back from Feng-guo, and if the Fengs claim the shipments are coming from Thamasq, it’s simply a matter of keeping a closer eye on the border. We’ll impose new checks in a few days. If we’re careful, the Fengs might not even hear about it.” He held up a hand before Lan Fan could speak. “They’ve not told you anything about this. They’ve no reason to suspect you if the borders are suddenly tightened. The snows will be coming in a month or two, and it’s natural to close the borders a little tighter during wintertime. Helps prevent raids.”

“Thamasq hasn’t raided us since the war.”

“But the borders have already been a problem the past few years. No one will think much of it.”

Lan Fan turned that over a few times in her mind, and then nodded. It seemed sound enough. “Have you told—”

“Yes.” Shan nodded. “He knows. He was the first to learn of it, after me. And I’m sure Princess Chang told him a second time, just in case I’d forgotten to mention it.”

Lan Fan let out a short breath, and swiped a hand over her face. Her eyes ached. It had been a very long night. There had been no possible way to excuse herself quickly from the party, not after Caterina della Babarigo and Lotus had arrived. She’d sat for hours with her heart rabbiting in her chest, pretending to smile when all she could think was there was an assassin creeping up on the Peony Pavilion, and this time there was no Shadow left to guard him. After all, a plot to kill the Dowager was most likely a plot to kill the whole of the ruling family, and that meant her master; it meant Mei Chang; it meant Commander Yao, and Suyin, and the baby they had coming. It meant her, she realized, with a sudden sick jolt. Feiyan Ma had been singled out by the Emperor; if they were going to kill the Dowager—

Suyin coughed, and Lan Fan knocked herself out of reverie. She’d already thought of all of this, hours ago, while Caterina had clung to her like a limpet and Xinzhe had ranted about philosophy. She’d done her duty. She’d reported it. It was over now. They had the advantage. They _had_ to. “Is there anything else you would ask of me, Command—cousin?”

Shan hesitated, and then reached out to clasp her shoulder, half on her automail, half off. He squeezed. “You’ve done well. Cousin,” he added, when Suyin nudged him. “You look like you’ve been dragged through all the hells. You really ought to sleep.”

She shook her head. She wouldn’t be able to sleep if she tried—her heart was still thudding in her chest, fluttering like a trapped bird. “I can’t. I’ve been invited to breakfast with Xiao Niao Song, and I can’t put her off again.”

He blinked. “When did that happen?” 

“Someone slid the note under my door while I was at the party. It was marked with her seal, orange blossoms on a white background. I don’t think it’s a trap, but I’ll bring weapons.” She tugged at the hem of her tangzhuang self-consciously. “Have you anything else for me, Commander?”

Shan studied her for a long moment. Then he squeezed her shoulder one last time (her sore muscles twinged where the arrow had pierced her) and let go. “You’ll be all right?”

 _That’s a question for the ages_. “I’ll do the best I can,” she said finally. “And if I offend her too badly, at least I’ve delivered what I know so far to you.”

“She likes you,” said Shan. “She doesn’t usually meet plainspoken noblewomen, and the Songs have always honored honesty. I think you’ve charmed her a little.”

“Better that I charm her than I disgust her, but either way it means I have to be political.” She let a breath out through her nose. Suyin sat down on the nearest couch, stroking her fingers over her belly and staring out the window. “Cousin Suyin, are you well?”

“I’m nauseous this morning.” Suyin turned and smiled, a little strained. “Our family has never been very good at keeping morning sickness to the morning, if you remember. Morning becomes dawn, or noon, or midnight, or all of them together. Your mother was the same when she carried you, I think.”

Lan Fan swallowed, and stared at the wall for a moment. Shan didn’t have many personal touches in his offices—it was clean and impersonal, no paintings on the walls or notes on the desk. Everything was pristine, aside from the couch, which was littered with crumpled pillows. Finally, she met Suyin’s eyes, and nodded. _Play the game, Feiyan._ If anyone was listening—doubtful, but it was wise to be cautious—then they’d only hear that Feiyan Ma was talking with her cousins, not that the banished Lan Fan Huo reporting to Commander Yao. It was safer. “She told me.”

Suyin’s mouth tightened. She reached out to Lan Fan with both hands. Lan Fan glanced back at Shan (he’d turned back to his desk, already muttering under his breath about the Dowager’s personal guards) and then moved to take them. Suyin squeezed her fingers. “We’ve not had a chance to talk about what happened, since—since everything.” She drew Lan Fan down onto the mussy couch beside her. “You’re well?”

“As well as I can be, considering.” She glanced at the window. Her skin shifted uncomfortably. Suyin had never been quite so concerned about her before. The woman she remembered from the maze, the fierce eyes and the sharp mouth—she wasn’t gone, exactly, just transmuted. The fierceness was embers, now, not rising flames. The sharpness was still there, though. Suyin dug her nails just a little into Lan Fan’s wrists.

“Don’t lie to me, cousin. The girl’s banishment distressed you. This cannot have helped.”

She couldn’t help herself. Lan Fan flinched, and looked down at Suyin’s hands. Suyin hadn’t released her yet. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. “There’s nothing to be done about Lan Fan Huo.” She just managed to keep her voice steady as she said it. “We’ve work to do, and I won’t ruin it because of something that I can’t change.”

Suyin tipped Lan Fan’s chin up, and searched her eyes. Then she sighed, and pressed her palm flat against Lan Fan’s cheek for a moment. She looked—she was worried, Lan Fan realized, with something like shock. They’d played their parts for a while, now, and Suyin had always been there when she’d needed—as an ally, maybe, and for advice on occasion—but she’d never seemed to worry about Lan Fan. Not before. Something, some old hurt, shifted uncomfortably beneath Lan Fan’s ribs, beside the gaping wound of the banishment. Then Suyin settled her hands in her lap, and nodded. “If you’re sure,” she said. Lan Fan closed her eyes, fighting the uncomfortable squeeze in her throat, and then nodded.

“I’m sure. It’s in the past.” Her voice cracked. “Like everything else. This matters more.”

Suyin hummed. When Lan Fan opened her eyes, Shan turned hastily around. She wondered if he’d been staring.

“I ought to go.” Lan Fan stood, shifting awkwardly in her wrinkled trousers. She’d just thrown on the first thing that had come to hand when the Fengs had driven her back to the imperial complex, and unfortunately it had been the tangzhuang and trousers she used to work Changchang in. It was stiff with dried sweat and horse hair. “I need to change and clean my face before I go to meet with the Songs. And my shoulder hurts, so I’ll have to ask Niu Lu for something. And—”

“Go.” Suyin reached out and caught her hands one last time, squeezing. “Let us know how it goes. Take Chang with you.”

“Chang’s exhausted. I can go on my own for once.”

“If Chang’s too tired for a simple escort, I’ll switch him out.” Shan frowned. “He’s been trained for more than one lost night.”

“I don’t need a guard,” said Lan Fan, frowning. To her surprise, Shan smiled.

“And yet the Emperor saw fit to give you one. If you were to dismiss him, then the whole court will talk. I thought you were tired of that?”

Lan Fan opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. “You don’t play fair,” she said, too tired to hold her tongue. Shan barked a laugh, and flapped his hand.

“Go away, cousin. You smell like horse.”

Lan Fan bowed, and left out the front door this time. The guard that had been posted beside it jumped at the sight of her. She ignored it; if he’d been sloppy enough to let someone sneak through the window on his watch, then she could at least shove the man’s ineptitude in his face after the fact.

Niu Lu already had the eleuthero root tea waiting for her when Lan Fan returned to her rooms. There was also one of her deel, red and black with white fur at the wrists. Even her boots had been freshly cleaned. Lan Fan frowned—even after weeks of this, the idea of having someone else clean her boots was highly unsettling—but before she could say anything about it Niu Lu was already whisking her off to the baths. The _lidschatten_ came off in clumps in the water, half her eyelashes along with it, and her lips were peeling under the paint. The jade snake earrings from Lien Hua were replaced with simple gold hoops (where Niu Lu had found them, considering Lan Fan’s ears had been unpierced before last night, Lan Fan had no idea) and then her face was touched up one last time with simple pink mouth color, a dusting of powder, and a light line of black around the eyes before Niu Lu shoved her out the door again.

 _I’ve created a monster_ , Lan Fan thought, staring at her reflection in one of the hanging mirrors she passed on the way to the Song rooms. _I never should have let her put makeup on me._

Still, she didn’t look completely alien. And the makeup did just as well as a mask to hide the bags under her eyes. Lan Fan smoothed the wrinkles out of her deel as behind her, Chang hid a yawn behind one hand.

The Songs had been placed in an impressive suite of rooms between the Sprout Garden and the Cherry Blossom Pavilions. The placement smacked of Huian Yao—it was close enough to the imperial rooms not to be completely offensive, but as far enough away as they could get without being horribly rude. She hadn’t thought that the Dowager Empress had any particular feeling for the Song either way—she’d never heard of Huian Yao and Xiao Niao Song clashing over anything, anyway—but since the Song were a border-family, they would have had no reason to tangle with the land-locked Yao. There was a set of guardswomen bracing the door, bearing long, wicked pikes. One of them was tattooed with irises. The other had a lotus blossoming over one cheek. The one with the iris bowed to Lan Fan as she approached. “My lady Song awaits you inside,” she said in a low voice, dropping an appraising eye to the dagger in Lan Fan’s boot. Lan Fan rather thought there was a bit of approval in her face when she met Lan Fan’s eyes again, bold as brass for a guard. “Your guard may enter, if he pleases.”

The guardswoman with the lotus across her cheek smiled, baring her teeth. Lan Fan’s lips twitched just enough for her cheeks to ache; it felt like she hadn’t laughed in a long time. Behind her, she felt Chang twitch. The guardswoman with the iris tattoo laughed, her eyes dancing, and opened the door. Neither of them had bound feet.

“Turn right when you reach the main study, and go through the sliding doors. She’s waiting for you in the private gardens. The Rosethorns, too.”

“My thanks to you,” said Lan Fan, wondering. She’d never met guards so talkative. Perhaps it was the culture in Song-guo, that guards and servants spoke their minds as they liked. If it was, perhaps she could go to Song-guo when all this was over.

 _As long as you like_ , the Emperor murmured in the back of her mind, and she squeezed her eyes to force it back. This was not the time.

“The Rosethorns?” asked Chang, as the guards shut the door behind them. Lan Fan touched one of the knives beneath her sleeve, and then shrugged.

“I suppose we’ll find out.” She had her suspicions, though. She’d heard worse monikers for children of the Families.

The rain had faded a little while she’d bathed. Now there were only soft grey clouds and raindrops left behind on leaves and petals as Lan Fan stepped through the sliding door, and a servant pushed it shut behind her. The Song women had settled themselves at a small table beneath a large cloth canopy, a bushel of fresh orange blossoms nestled in the center. Where they’d managed to find them during this time of year Lan Fan had no idea. Xiao Niao Song sat at the head of the table, her eldest daughter to her left, but there was an empty space to her right that made Lan Fan’s stomach turn upside down. She caught Xiao Niao Song’s eye, and bowed. “First Governor Song,” she said, staring at the cobblestones. “It is my honor to be here.”

“Lady Ma.” Xiao Niao Song tilted her head to the side, studying her. “It was my pleasure to invite you. Please sit.”

She hesitated. Then Lan Fan settled herself in the chair on Governor Song’s right, keeping her hands flat on the table. The eldest girl—Lan Fan couldn’t remember any of their names—cleared her throat, and drew a circle on the table with her forefinger. Her nails were painted black, and her qi signature left the heavy scent of jasmine in the back of Lan Fan’s throat. Xiao Niao Song tasted like the oranges on the table, like the oranges in her sigil. Everywhere, oranges. Her eyes were watering at the power of it. “Good morning, Lady Ma,” she said. “I don’t believe we were ever introduced. I am Xiao Huan, Second Daughter.”

Lan Fan dipped her head. “I remember you.”

Xiao Huan’s lips turned up. “Considering the past few days, that surprises me.”

“I’m good at faces.” Lan Fan folded her hands on the table to hide the way her palm was sweating. If the automail bothered them, none of them gave a sign. Xiao Huan tucked a few of her alkahestry braids behind her ear—she had seven, all down the right-hand side, with one jade pendant woven in—and gestured to her right.

“This is Xiao Liu, Third Daughter.” Xiao Liu was reading a book. She looked up, nodded, and then retreated back into it. Her qi was like chipped mica, glittering in shadows. “And beside you is Xiao Xie, Fourth Daughter.”

Lan Fan glanced at the youngest girl, Xiao Xie, the one with startling eyes. Like her mother, she tasted of oranges. Xiao Xie picked at the skin of an orange with her long fingernail for a moment. Then she broke the orange in half, and offered her a piece. “We brought them with us,” she said, when Lan Fan took the sticky orange from her bare hands. “We have hothouses in Song-guo. Oranges all year round.”

“I had wondered,” said Lan Fan. She nodded to Xiao Xie and to Xiao Huan, and then turned back to Lady Song, turning the orange in her metal palm. “I—I apologize for being unable to meet with you sooner. I heard something about you requesting that the matter of the borders be tabled until I was well enough to attend.”

“Yes.” Xiao Niao Song looked to her eldest daughter one more time, and then rested her elbows on the table. The broad birthmark on her cheek had been layered over with intricate tattoos, tiny orange blossoms the size of Lan Fan’s pinky fingernail. The effect was more of flowers on a background than any sort of disguise, highlighting and subduing the mark all at once. She wondered if that meant something. “As the only nomad at court who can speak for your people, I thought it wise to hold off until the Ma are offered a voice.”

Behind her, Chang shifted just slightly. Lan Fan passed an orange back to him, not caring if it was a breach of protocol, and then started in on the half that Xiao Xie had offered her. It was very tart, but just sweet enough that she could swallow without choking. After she finished her mouthful, she said, “Like I said before, First Governor Song, I’m truly not certain how I can help you. I can only speak for the Ma, and even then only for my branch of the family. We are many and fragmented, and the policies we hold vary from place to place. Though generally we do try to keep it in line with imperial command.”

“You may call me Lady Song. First Governor is too much of a mouthful.” She peeled a strip of skin off of her own orange, worrying it between her fingers. “If you have no ability to speak for your people, Lady Ma, why were you sent here? Forgive me, but it seems…lax.”

“My cousin is pregnant. She requested that I attend to her until the baby is born, and when I left Ma territory, the idea of my attending the Gathering hadn’t occurred to anyone. My father would have given me leave to speak for us if he’d known, but…” She shrugged. _There’s also the fact that he’s not actually my father, and I can’t actually make deals for the Ma._ “If you invited me with a mind to craft a deal, I’m sorry. I don’t have the dispensation to do it.”

“I thought as much.” Lady Song traced a finger around the rim of her crystal glass. “Perhaps we can dispense with the hypothetical double-speech, then. I use it when I must, but I don’t enjoy it, and I don’t believe you to be the sort of person who tolerates it well.”

Lan Fan blinked. She couldn’t find a jot of duplicity in Lady Song’s qi signature. Xiao Huan spooned a bowlful of rice and then offered it across the table. Lan Fan took it with both hands, and collected her chopsticks. The middle child, Xiao Liu, kept her eyes on her plate, lifting food methodically to her mouth over the pages of her book. There was a deep scar on the back of her hand, like a puncture wound from a dog bite. “I wasn’t raised for politics, my lady,” said Lan Fan, carefully, as she tasted the rice. There was salt sprinkled on it, just slightly, but nothing else. “From what little I have learned since coming here, I don’t find it to my liking.”

Lady Song sipped at her tea, folding crooked fingers around the slender porcelain. “No, I did not think you would.”

She really hoped the Songs weren’t laughing at her. Lan Fan ducked her head, and ate another piece of orange.

“I don’t know if you were old enough, Lady Ma, to recall what happened during the Nohin War—though you were certainly very impassioned about it during the meeting last week.” Lan Fan kept her eyes on the table, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes. Xiao Niao Song didn’t seem to notice. “I do remember it, and that level of bloodshed…it’s not something I would like to see happen again in my territory.” Lady Song sipped at her tea again. “I do understand that you have no authority to speak for your people, and even if your father had offered it to you you would not have the ability to make deals or offer them on behalf of other nomadic tribes. What I ask from you isn’t anything that you cannot give me. What I want, more than anything, is information.”

Lan Fan’s thumbnail slipped against her second orange, cutting right into the skin. She turned it over in her palms. “Information, my lady?”

“Nothing that might concern you.” Lady Song peered at her over the rim of her teacup. “I don’t intend an attack on your people, or on any other nomadic group. As you say, many have not offered me harm, and many more avoid us entirely.” She leaned back in her chair. “In plainest speech, Lady Ma, I wish to make peace with them.”

Lan Fan stripped the orange of its skin, and left it on her plate. “The Empire has been wanting peace between the tribes and the imperials for generations, but no one has ever managed it. I don’t think there’s much I could do about that.”

“You know of the tribes. More than I do, at least.” She lifted the teapot, and refilled her cup. Then she filled Lan Fan’s. Lan Fan nodded her thanks, and hefted the mug between her hands. The warmth of the ceramic stung at her fingertips. “I have discussed it with His Imperial Majesty, may he live ten thousand years, and we’ve agreed that it should be the first priority of Song politics to be rebuilding the relationships we once shared with the tribes. The Nohin are lost to us, but perhaps we can prevent similar atrocities before they occur.”

Lan Fan looked from Xiao Huan, who was the sort of still that meant she was hanging off every word, to Xiao Niu, who was ignoring them perfectly, and finally to Xiao Xie (she was still staring at Lan Fan’s arm) before she met Lady Song’s eyes again. Her qi hadn’t flickered once. Either she was exceptionally good at masking—a possibility that Lan Fan refused to discount—or she was being completely serious. No matter what, Lan Fan’s heart seemed determined to settle in her throat, and stay there forever. “You mean to make treaties with the nomadic tribes?”

“I mean to ensure that my people will never again suffer because of the conflicts between sedentary and nomad.” Lady Song sighed. “It is something that I have considered for a decade or more, since the massacres, but the onset of the drought and—other concerns—distracted me from it.” She folded her hands on the table. “I ask you this as a favor, Lady Ma, not as a command. You have no reason to believe me, and I understand that. But I was taught by my mother, as her mother taught her, and as I try to teach my daughters, that the best thing one can do for one’s country and one’s nation is to leave it a better place than it was when you came into it. It’s a foolish dream, but it’s one that I have held dear all my life. I think this is an opportunity to make good on it.”

Lan Fan squeezed her hands tight. “It doesn’t seem foolish to me. Just idealistic.”

Lady Song shrugged. “Perhaps. But idealism is, by its very nature, a fool’s dream. Ideals have no place in the realities of combat, whether it takes place on a battlefield or in a courtroom or in the lacquered palace of the ages. Reality destroys them.”

She thought of the firebrands, of Sakari Kazuki’s spitting words; of the Emperor and the monster he’d taken inside him, smiling, steadfast. “It depends on the sort of ideals you hold.”

“Perhaps.” Lady Song stared at her. “But I think that you might be an idealist, Lady Ma, underneath that carefully constructed façade of yours. Perhaps the best hope for idealism to survive is for idealists flock together. Without support, we lose our faith.”

“You don’t strike me as the sort who lost faith in anything, Lady Song.”

“You would be surprised.” Lady Song swirled her tea in the cup. Outside of the little pavilion, it began to rain again. “Will you teach me, Lady Ma? Rest assured, I will not be offended if you say no.”

Lan Fan mulled over it for a second. It couldn’t do harm, truly. She knew enough of the tribes to get by, and what she didn’t know, she could ask Suyin. Still, she hesitated. To her left, Xiao Xie swallowed her mouthful of rice, and then said, “Perhaps in return, Mother, you could tell Lady Ma more about the court. She could join our tutoring sessions, maybe.”

“The Lady Ma already has a tutor, Xiao Xie.” Lady Song frowned. “Or so I have heard. Besides, I’m certain she’s too busy to set time aside for more than one meeting a week, if that.”

Lan Fan blinked. “Forgive me, my lady, but—are you not returning to Song-guo at the end of the Gathering? I would have thought—”

“We have had to put off our time in the capitol for far too long.” Lady Song sighed. “We remain at court for the foreseeable future, in order to best serve our gracious majesty.”

It had to be the time clause. Still, Feiyan Ma wouldn’t know that. “I don’t understand.”

“The Fifty Families made a covenant with the second Emperor of Xing to spend six months out of every year by his side in court.” Lady Song did not smile. “Due to the droughts in the west, the Emperor, long may he reign, was gracious enough to grant me dispensation to remain in Song-guo for the past two years. As such, I now have eighteen months of time I must serve at the Emperor’s side.”

Feiyan Ma nodded. In the privacy of her own head, Lan Fan frowned again, thinking. If Xiao Niao Song and her daughters remained at court, then it was possible they might be put into play for the Lotus Hall. Something twisted in her guts. It did make political sense—the Songs had never been very interested in the machinations of the capitol, not since Xiao Niao had taken over nearly twenty-five years ago; they were an old family, a fertile one, and one that would lend a certain amount of political strength to the Dawn Emperor’s border policies. She looked at Xiao Huan again—as the eldest, she was the most likely candidate—and her stomach churned. If the Emperor really did choose a bride by the next full moon—and she was certain he would, he would never have said otherwise if he didn’t plan on it—then the Songs would be a primary candidate for Empress.

_Think about that later. Keep your head in the moment._

“I see.” Lan Fan bit her tongue. “The only thing that I can think of that might enamor the tribes to the Empire would be if you forged an allegiance with them against the Minari.”

Lady Song blinked. Then her eyes hardened. “Explain.”

“The Minari have few allies. They’re a large nation, and a powerful one. They’re a raiding tribe; they raise horses and sheep, and steal what they need when they need it. It’s part of their religion, their ideals. The more kills you have, the more honor you attain.” She could remember the trip across the desert with Master Ling and her grandfather, remember the tribesmen they’d traveled with, the horror stories of the Minari. “They’re a brutal people. What few allies they have are often betrayed when needs arise. Many of the tribes fear them. If the Empire were seen to take an active stand against the Minari, to ally with other tribes—” Lan Fan swallowed. “The tribes are nations in and of themselves. If you don’t recognize them as such, they won’t listen to you. Every riding group is independent. There’s no one leader. You have to deal with each tribe as an independent unit before you start making deals with the whole. It’s the only way.”

“There are hundreds of tribes, though.” Xiao Huan frowned. “It would take years.”

“There are thousands of them,” said Lan Fan. “But they won’t reply if you treat them like a sedentary nation. You’ll just insult them. You have to talk to each of them. Maybe many times, because if one leader that treats with you dies, the next might not follow the same rules. If you can get enough on your side, though, and tempt them with an alliance against the Minari, who they almost universally despise, you might have a chance.”

Xiao Niao Song searched her face. Lan Fan looked back at her without blinking, stroking her thumb over the half-peeled orange. Finally, Lady Song nodded, and lifted a hand to one of the servants circling the pavilion. “Bring me a map,” she said, when the footman bowed low. “I believe Lady Ma and I have much to discuss.”

Xiao Huan gave her a satisfied smile.  

*

He’d just finished his last bout with one of Shan’s guards when he felt his mother on the edge of the room. Ling shoved hair back out of his eyes, glancing at her sidelong, not wanting to let her know he’d noticed just yet. She was in Yao green today, her hair caught up in something that looked more Western than Xingese, the phoenix claws of the empress fixed firmly on her fingers. Her qi signature was dancing with excitement. Even untrained as she was—his mother had never been one for the Dragon’s Pulse—it was making his skin itch.

“Thank you,” he said. “It was a good match.”

The guard he’d knocked to the floor made a little choking noise, and waved one hand. “My honor, majesty.”

Ling hid a smile. It had taken almost as long as he’d spent on the throne to get his set of sixteen bodyguards—fifteen, he corrected himself; fifteen, now the Shadow was gone—to agree to spar with him. None of them were as good as Fuu had been, and couldn’t hold a candle to Lan Fan, either, but it helped keep him in shape. His body was a weapon as much as his mind was, and he had no intention of letting either go dull. Ling shrugged on a light robe, and wiped the back of his neck with a silk handkerchief before theatrically jumping. “Mother. I didn’t see you there.”

“My apologies, majesty.” She swept into a bow, a long curl of hair dangling over her shoulder. It was woven with garnets, and when the light caught them, the stones winked like beads of blood. “I would have thought you had noticed me.”

“I was thinking.” He gestured at the guards, and without a word, they melted from the training room. Huian’s eyes sharpened, just slightly, but she smiled when he offered her his arm. “If you can tolerate the smell of me, I will escort you back to your quarters.”

“To the Gathering Hall, I think, my son.” Huian touched her fingertips just lightly to the back of his wrist. “I have a meeting with Minister Liu this morning that I cannot afford to miss. We were discussing the renovation of the Lotus Hall.”

 _And there it is_. Of course the one thing that would draw Huian out of her den of plots would be the thought of getting him married to one of her puppets. They passed through the door of the training hall, and out into the arched hallway through the Dappled Courtyard. “Oh?”

“It’s still laced in Qiao colors, you see. Black and orange, snakes everywhere. Very dour.” She dimpled at him. “I thought that the ladies who take up residence might want to decorate their own rooms, but that means cleansing the walls of the previous women who lived there. After the Gathering is over and we leave for Pubuchuan we can have people come in and repaint the walls. If, of course, that is seen as agreeable by your majesty.”

“I see.” What would the Lotus Hall be used for once the Fifty Wives were abolished? Not more training rooms. He thought that the library was beginning to overflow, though, and they were as close to each other as one could get, in regards to palace architecture. Ling nodded. “It sounds fine. I don’t mind.”

“Wonderful. Shen Liu is a tiring little man, but he does have a talent for reorganizing the staff when we find it necessary.”

“Shouldn’t that be under Zhang’s purview? Liu ought to be working in the treasury, not overseeing painters.”

“I requested Liu specifically for this. He’s been so invested in the reopening of the Hall, majesty. It only seemed right to let him prepare it.”

He nodded again, only half-listening. A few of the Qiao had taken a place in the gardens to grapple out of sight of the guardmaster. One of them had just knocked the other to the sand. Cousins through his father, probably. Not imperial cousins, and too distant to really be part of the first bloodline, but he could still catch shadows of the Retired Emperor in their silhouettes. He flexed one hand, and wondered if anyone would mind if he skipped the meetings today. He dearly wanted to shoot something, all of a sudden.

“Have you heard a word I said?” Huian dug her long nails into the back of his wrist in a warning, and Ling snapped to attention. “You’re not usually so distant, my boy. Have one of our ladies distracted you?”

“No.” He rolled his neck, and gave her a _you must be joking_ smile. “None of them are particularly interesting. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Well.” Huian looked satisfied. “There aren’t many here that are worthy of the bloodline, anyway. Perhaps one or two of the Zhaos, maybe a Chen from the governor’s family, but other than that there are few that should be considered. Of course, after word spreads, a great many candidates will be making their way to Pubuchuan. Did you choose the full moon intentionally, or was it simply luck? The waterfalls will be a lovely place to announce an engagement.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t particularly thought about it.” The court was already groaning under the weight of the Gathering. Once it was completed, they would make for Pubuchuan, for the hot springs and waterfalls that would defend them through the winter months. Xinjing would be left untended until March, perhaps even later if Zhang managed to convince him to do another tour of the territories. That is, if the man came out of his cave again anytime soon. “Though I suppose you’re right. It’s traditional to announce an imperial marriage with the new year, after all.”

Huian gleamed at him. Then her eyes flickered. “I must admit, majesty, I was—surprised when you acceded so readily to Shen Liu’s request. I recall that not too long ago you implied that it would be years before you married, perhaps longer. Not until the matter of the borders was settled, you said.”

 _And with an uprising in the making, and the Feng still plotting at who knows what, perhaps it would have been wiser to keep putting it off._ “The matter of the Qarashi borders has been dealt with as best we can manage it. Besides, if I keep putting off personal duties with professional concerns, I may never marry at all. As happy as that would make my cousins, I doubt that the court as a whole would appreciate it.”

Her mouth twisted. “That was…wise of you, my son.”

He wondered how long it had taken her to perfect that look of delicate disgust. Probably decades, he thought. Longer. Instead of asking, he let his lips curve up—too many years of practice there, himself—and they walked in silence for a while. Judging by the flickers of qi from behind him, his bodyguards had taken it upon themselves to turn this into a training exercise in stealth. He thought a few of them might be on the roof.

“I confess,” Huian said, when they came into an empty corridor, “I was concerned. No, that’s incorrect—I _am_ concerned, my son.” She always said it that way, _my_ son, as if she was confirming to herself that he belonged to her. It always made his skin prickle with nerves. “May I ask—do you intend to allow the nomad to ply a suit?”

Ling blinked. Then he blinked again. He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. _I should have expected this._ Considering the marks his mother had left on Lan Fan’s face, he really should have anticipated her coming out of the woodwork to protest even the vaguest possibility that the Emperor of Xing would marry a nomad. Even if the nomad was part of the Fifty Families. Even if that nomad didn’t, technically, exist. “I see no reason to disallow it.”

“May I be honest with you, majesty?” Huian glanced to the side, where a few nobles were pretending not to eavesdrop; they scuttled at the look on her face. “The nomad is not well liked. Neither of them are. It’s bad enough that the Commander turned his back on the possibility of a good match because of the wiles of the tribes; but this wedding must be as politically blessed as I’m sure it will be by the spirits. One of the Ma would be—forgive me, my son, but it would be a poor choice.”

Something deep beneath his sternum, something that sang of blood and wealth and Greed, snarled. Ling pressed his lips tight together for a moment, struggling to keep his temper. _Mine_ , he thought, _my choice is_ mine, _you won’t take this from me too_. He made himself smile. “My thanks for the advice, Mother. Rest assured I will make the best choice out of the options available to me, for both the empire and myself.”

Huian glanced at him, and sighed. “Honestly, it was bad enough that you kept the Shadow for so long. I know she meant a good deal to you, my dear boy, but there are reputations to consider. It’s better to be safe than sorry in such circumstances. The girl was an enterprising sort; I’m certain she’ll make a name for herself in Amestris. If what I hear about their new Fuhrer is any indication, they seem to appreciate that sort of initiative.”

For a second, Ling thought he’d misunderstood something. Then he slowed. Huian looked at him, triumphant at first, and then confused. She turned pale under her makeup when he bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t understand you. What sort of initiative are you talking about, exactly?”

Huian opened her mouth. Then she closed it again, slowly. For the first time he could remember, his mother actually looked frightened of him. Finally, she swallowed. “Nothing, majesty. Simply an old woman’s ponderings.”

Ling stepped just out of her reach, letting her hand slip free from his wrist. “I’m afraid I’ve just remembered an appointment I have to prepare for,” he said. “Shall I call for another escort?”

“No. I think I can find my own way from here.” She set her teeth into her lower lip, and then stepped back from him, sweeping into a low bow. “All I ask is that you take my words into account,” she said to the floor. “Of course your majesty knows best.”

“Noted,” said Ling. “Have a good day, Mother.”

She walked away with her head held high, her ladies fluttering like doves at her back. Ling watched her go until she had turned the corner, and then turned on his heel, heading for the imperial baths. The corridors around the Gathering Hall were near silent, for once. Most of the Fifty Families who had traveled to Xinjing would be in their own, private meetings; he didn’t have anything on his schedule until a little after noon. Still: it was only once he was locked away in one of the hot rooms, waist-deep in water with no one else around, that he finally gave in to his temper.

Ling smashed one fist into the hard stone wall. His skin split. Blood welled on the knuckles. He could feel the muscles in his arms twitching, an unwelcome surge of Greed-ish fury lancing through his guts. It was almost like he was going to be sick. He hit the wall again, the sharp pain stinging up his arm and into his nerves, snapping him back to reality.

So simple. It had been there staring him in the face, and he hadn’t worked it out. Of course Huian had a reason for getting rid of Lan Fan. Of _course_ she’d wanted her out of the court. The whole of Xinjing had whispered for months about what their relationship might have been, had called Lan Fan a whore for it before she’d even been named Shadow—even if Huian hadn’t believed it, getting a supposed bedmate out of the way of whatever lady she’d picked to shepherd onto the Empress’ throne would be nothing other than elementary. Huian hadn’t even mentioned the Shadow until after he’d announced his intent to choose a spouse.

_My fault. All of it. My fault._

Logically, there was nothing he could have done. Even if Lan Fan had never taken on the face of Feiyan Ma, it was more than likely that Huian would have tried to oust her from her place as the Shadow anyway. A year from now, five years from now, ten, it would have happened, and just like this, he probably wouldn’t have been able to stop it. Huian wanted an Ascending Empress who was a puppet, a marionette that she could maneuver wherever she liked; a supposed mistress, no matter the truth, would have been the fly in the hypothetical ointment.

 _Fuck that, brat_. The voice sounded unsettlingly like Greed. His knuckles twinged. _You fucked up, sure, but your bitch of a mother is the one who pushed. Quit moping and get even. How is such a weakling supposed to be the Emperor of Xing?_

He scoffed. There was logic and there was instinct, and instinct was telling him this was mostly his fault. Not entirely, but mostly. He hadn’t covered his back, and Lan Fan had suffered for it. He’d pushed, and she’d lost something important to her. First it had been her arm, and now it was her name—if it happened again—

 _It won’t happen again._ It couldn’t. He wouldn’t let it. He was no king, no emperor, without the people at his back, and he couldn’t watch Lan Fan sacrifice herself in his place. Not again.

 _To embrace guilt is your own prerogative, but keeping hold of it is unhealthy._ Or, more simply: wallowing is pointless. Get even instead. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was what Fuu had wanted him to take away from that little maxim, but it worked better than nothing. Though how exactly he was supposed to get even for this, he wasn’t sure, and probably wouldn’t be for years to come.

 _You robbed me of one of my most loyal supporters, one of my most prized tools. You took my dearest friend away._ In less than ten minutes Huian Yao had swept away everything that Lan Fan was—her name, her courage, her honor—and smashed it to smithereens. He’d never seen Lan Fan cry the way she had in the stable yard. More than that—he’d never seen Lan Fan cry, not when she’d given up her arm, not when he’d been watching her through Greed’s eyes, not even when Fuu had died. She’d sobbed later—he’d heard her, muffled in the dark—but in the moment, she’d gone cold. In the stables, she’d unraveled. She’d nearly shaken herself to pieces, and if she hadn’t rebuilt herself, if she’d truly fallen apart...

He wasn’t sure what that would have meant for either of them.

She ought to hate him for this, but she didn’t. He was too selfish to try and change her mind. He needed her too much. Ling forced his hands out of fists, pressing his palms flat to the wall. _Dangerous,_ said the thin, flat, cold part of him, the part that reminded him of Huian. _Dangerous if anyone ever learns how much you need her. Dangerous for her, dangerous for you. Even if she’s Feiyan, and not Lan Fan. They’ll use her against you, and you against her, until there’s nothing left._

His thoughts were spinning, staining. Ling stepped away from the wall. Blood swirled away and vanished in the bath water as he dipped himself to the shoulders, and then let the water close over his head. His hand ached, but that didn’t particularly matter. Flesh healed. He opened his eyes under the water, staring at the wall of the bathing pool.

The sheer simplicity of his mother’s motives bothered him. It meant that there was something ahead that she’d been planning for, something that she’d been maneuvering in the shadows. Shen Liu was a part of it—that much was obvious by now, considering how often they’d paired off recently—and if he had to guess, there were a few others at court who would throw their names behind one match or another. Traditionally (and there it was again, tradition, _tradition_ , burn it all down around their ears) it was the Dowager Empress, if she lived, who helped to broker imperial marriages. All the women (or, in the case of Empresses, men) who wished to ply their suits would report first to the Dowager, as a way of honoring the Mother of the Empire. Huian had probably written out a list of acceptable candidates from the moment he’d returned from Amestris, adding or removing names as necessary according to her policies and her allies.

His lungs were burning. Ling pushed back to the surface again, taking a deep breath through his nose. Outside the bathing room, flickers of qisnapped back and forth as servants wandered through the pavilion, organizing, preparing. He had no idea what time it was.

There was still the Gathering to finish, he told himself. The Gathering, and the uprising to crush, and the Fengs to finally subdue. The matter of marriage was another heaping plate on an already groaning dinner table, laced with arsenic’s bitter almonds. Ling heaved himself out of the pool, wrapping a towel around his waist. Usually there were bathhouse servants to do it for him, to dab his hair and dry him, but he’d dismissed them today. It was soothing to do it himself; he felt normal, like the clock had turned back and he was on the road to Amestris again, when things had been so much more complicated and yet so extravagantly simple.

 _Close the borders._ He had scheduled a few discussions with the border nations today, especially the ones that lined Thamasq; that was simple enough if he pushed. _Lan Fan will handle the Fengs_. The Gathering would be over in a week and a half, and then they would be packing up the Imperial City and moving the court to Pubuchuan for the winter season. He braided his hair, ignoring the trickles of water down his back. Marriage could be tabled until Pubuchuan, but he would be keeping a closer eye on his mother. Whatever it was she was doing, he had absolutely no intention of letting her manage it.

He stared at his split knuckles for a moment, and then left the bathing room. It was, after all, time for work.

*

Much to the consternation of everyone—the servants most of all, she thought, considering the amount of mud being tracked through the halls—the rain didn’t stop for nearly a full week. The palace smelled of incense and rotting leaves, even in the depths of the Gathering Hall. She had to fight to get her courtyard door open in the mornings; the grain of the wood was so swollen that it caught in the jamb. The mud made working with Changchang impossible; the mare would have slipped more often than stepped, and Lan Fan wasn’t looking for another broken bone.

By the end of the week, Lan Fan had met up with the Songs four more times, spending the time in between in close conference with Suyin to ensure that none of the information she passed over to Lady Song and the Rosethorns was faulty. She liked the Songs, in all honesty. They were straightforward. They didn’t lie. They twisted the truth a bit—she could usually catch the flickers in their qi when they talked around something, or changed the subject—but they hadn’t yet outright lied to her. More than that, they seemed to like her. Xiao Xie, in particular, had begun to follow her around outside of their breakfast meetings, asking her opinion on this noble, or that policy, or anything that seemed to pop into her head. Eventually, Lan Fan just gave her _Tomiko’s Letters_ to read. At least there, she could answer truthfully.

When she wasn’t in meetings with the Songs or sitting with Suyin, Lien Hua usually managed to find her. Lien Hua seemed to have decided that Caterina della Babarigo was her new project; if she wasn’t in meetings for the Gathering, she was with Caterina, and if she wasn’t with Caterina, she was with Aiguo Cao. Caterina’s rooms were like Caterina—pale, and quiet, and mostly unmarked. Caterina didn’t really say much at all, simply listening intently to the rhythms of Lien Hua’s accented Aerugan or Lan Fan’s sloppy Amestrian, and turning to Lotus’s botched translations when necessary. She wasn’t much different at the few meetings she’d attended with Lan Fan and Mingli; she had a flair for curling her tongue around Xinjing tones, but she could barely string a full sentence together without staring down at her lap, twisting her rings around her fingers. Dong Mao didn’t seem to go near her at all. If she’d had the energy to manage it, Lan Fan would have felt sorry for her. As it was, she was getting up at dawn and falling into bed past midnight, barely sleeping for the nightmares, wading through a sort of numbness that she couldn’t quite shake. She had no pity left to spare.

There were only three days left to the Gathering when Niu Lu woke her with an invitation to lunch with the Minister of the Right. “It must have been the Songs,” she said in a low voice, while Lan Fan simply stared at the seal, still bleary and twitching from bad dreams. “I know Lady Song meets often with Minister Zhang. She had to have said something.”

“Don’t tell Lien Hua,” Lan Fan said. “She’s been trying to get a meeting with him for a week.” Then she pressed her pillow down hard over her face, ignoring the pinch in her nose. Maybe, if she blocked out the world, the world would leave her alone. She didn’t believe it, but it was still worth a try.

Lan Fan heard Niu Lu scoff through the feather pillow.

Before this year’s Gathering, Lan Fan could only remember seeing Bao Zhang twice before. The first time, she’d only been with the court a year, her grandfather’s masked, silent shadow. Fuu had been guarding Huian then, not the young master. Chancellor Zhang—he’d not been Minister then, only the second son of the Zhangs, one of the Retired Emperor’s cousins-by-marriage. The only reason she remembered him was that he’d been the only one to notice her lurking behind the door. Zhang had slipped her a _shaobing_ on his way out, winking at her as he turned away. He’d not been much older than she was now, she realized. Twenty-one, maybe a little more. Twenty-five when the Tea Leaf Emperor had promoted him to Minister, freakishly early, without warning or explanation. Shen Liu had been furious, but there was nothing to be done. Ministers were only removed from their positions if they were exiled, or if they died. If that hadn’t been the case, she thought, Shen Liu would have been fired a long time ago.

Zhang had been at her master’s coronation, too, but she’d barely caught a glimpse of him. In all honesty, Zhang’s attendance had been nearly as talked about as the foiled assassination; Zhang barely ever left his quarters in the palace, sending assistants or underlings to report his work and his findings. He never met with anyone. Why would he meet with her? What possible interest could he have in Feiyan Ma?

She groaned into the pillow, and then rolled out of bed onto the floor so she could work on her push-ups.

Bao Zhang lived in a suite of rooms not too far beyond the Gathering Hall. It was a good place for someone who rarely appeared in public—after all, the Gathering was only once every two years, and the rest of the time nobody except cleaners came near this part of the palace—but it meant that everyone from the Fengs to the lowest of the sootboys would know that Feiyan Ma had been summoned to meet with the Minister of the Right before an hour was out. Lan Fan fought off the urge to tug at her earrings (these ones a loan from Suyin, thin treated feathers that had been molted by a steppes falcon) and kept her eyes straight ahead. She could feel the Emperor nearby, cloaked for the most part but somewhere close, qi catching at her like broken glass; she closed her shields down again. Chang clung to her shoulder, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The people around them were shifting and muttering, a sea of disapproval.

“What have I done?” she asked, barely lifting her voice above a whisper. They turned the corner, and a few footmen fled in their wake.

“You’ve not appeared in public since the Shadow’s banishment, milady,” said Chang. He twisted one hand in a sign she’d taught him, back when she’d been a bodyguard. _Three o’clock._ When she glanced to her right, she saw Aiguo Cao’s brother Heng slipping between two Lius, vanishing down a servant’s passage. Heading to report to Lien Hua’s fiancé, no doubt. She could feel Caterina della Babarigo around here somewhere, and wondered if the poor girl had ben roped into talks about Aerugan relations. “There have been rumors.”

Lan Fan dropped her human fingers to the deer-horn hilt of her hip-blade. “What rumors?”

Chang was quiet for a long time. Then he said: “The Empress has not been kind.”

Lan Fan glanced back at him. Her palm itched for a blade. Then she nodded once, and faced front again. There were only a few in the crowd who would meet her eyes. She spied Mingli waiting outside a door with his younger sister; he waved once, but didn’t move. Biyi Chang, Suyin’s friend, pressed her hand as she passed. Most of them would catch her gaze, then look away, as if they couldn’t bear to look at her. As if she was tainted.

Lan Fan could only imagine what Huian Yao had been saying about her, in the few days she’d spent cloistered with the Songs. She bit her tongue, then pressed it hard to the roof of her mouth. She’d heard it all before, anyway.

The area around Bao Zhang’s rooms was a bit quieter. There were guards at the first corridor. She presented herself, spoke her name, and without a word they let her pass. The same thing happened at the second checkpoint, and at the third, one of the guards broke away from the group to guide her. Chang hovered at her back, barely breathing. Slowly, the whispers of the Gathering died, and their footsteps echoed off of the marble tiles like falling stones. She could still feel them watching her, though, even muffled as she was, churning and swirling in their whirlpool of judgment. The guard said nothing, simply led them deeper into the administrative wing, until finally they reached a door carved with the Zhang weasels. She could hear faint voices through the scented wood.

“You will wait,” said the guard, and then he turned on his heel and walked away from them. Lan Fan and Chang exchanged a glance. Then Chang looked away again, his cheeks slightly pink. Lan Fan fought back the urge to sigh. She’d not mentioned anything about Chang’s behavior at the Cao party, simply because she had no idea what she was supposed to do about it. If it had just been Chang offering a sideways compliment, then there was nothing _to_ be done about it, since it meant nothing. If it had actually been something—she didn’t want to think about that. She’d never been wooed before, not by anyone. She had never wanted it. She couldn’t imagine herself getting married, or falling in love. What was love supposed to be, anyway? It sounded messy and unpleasant; insulating, isolating, tragic.

For a second she thought of Al and Mei Chang at the princess’s party all those weeks ago, tucked together, allied, soft in a way she’d never seen before. Lan Fan shook the image out of her mind, and folded her hands in front of her, neatly. She wouldn’t fall in love. She refused to lose herself. She had her mission, and her job. She had her master to think about. She didn’t have time for something like love.

There was a flicker of breath from Chang, as if he’d heard her thoughts, but when she glanced at him sidelong he was staring at the slate-blue lacquer on the fringes of the wall. Nobody was paying attention to them. She said, “I want to go and visit Peizhi today. See if he wants to see Changchang. Will you come?”

Chang’s finger stilled against his sword. Then he resumed his tapping. “Masked?” he asked, finally. Lan Fan felt the corners of her mouth lift, and turned away before he could see it.

“Bringing them wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“As you like,” he replied.

She heard chairs scraping in the Minister’s offices, and turned to face the door again. Lan Fan opened her shields just slightly, not enough to be noticed, just enough to catch the air, to scent it the way a wolf would. She could feel a few different qi signatures beyond—Bao Zhang’s like charcoal and motor oil, the scent of burning hair for Shen Liu. She recognized the third in the split second before the door opened, and her belly dropped down through the floor. She sank into her deepest bow, Chang mimicking her without a thought, as the door slid aside to reveal the Dawn Emperor and the Minister of the Left, the air between them crackling like ball lightning. Her feather earring tickled her cheek. “Majesty,” she said. _A coincidence? Probably._ Zhang had no reason to throw her together with her master. After all, before this morning, she’d had no idea Bao Zhang even knew who Feiyan Ma _was._

She felt the Emperor freeze, his footsteps stilling against the marble. She could hear Shen Liu sniff, as if he’d caught the smell of something unpleasant. Then: “Don’t bow, Lady Ma. It can’t be good for your shoulder, to move it up and down and all around.”

Lan Fan straightened her back with an effort, keeping her eyes away. How long had it been since she’d seen the Emperor? She felt him, constantly, but sight was different. Sight made her think of the physicality of him, the touch of his fingers on her hair. Sight reminded her of how weak she’d been. For a second, she thought she felt the ghost of his breath against her ear. “My shoulder is much improved, imperial majesty, though I thank you for your concern. I owe Princess Chang my life.”

“As I owe mine to you, no matter if the debt is repaid.” He ignored Shen Liu’s soft sound of incredulity from his shoulder. Lan Fan, on the other hand, stared at Shen Liu until he couldn’t meet her gaze anymore, turning his face aside with angry color high over his cheekbones. “You must be Zhang’s mysterious lunch meeting. He hustled the pair of us out of here in order to prepare for it.”

“I suppose I must be,” she said, “though what he wants to meet with me for, I have no idea.”

The Emperor dropped his hands to his sides, settling his face into a perfect court smile. There was something hollow and hungry in the curve of his mouth. It reminded her of Greed. “I guess you’ll have to ask him yourself,” he said, and stepped to the side, out of Shen Liu’s path. “I’ll meet you in the _kirin_ room in an hour, Minister.”

For a second, she thought Shen Liu was going to protest. Then the Minister of the Left gave her a look that could have seared paint off a wall, and swept away down the corridor. Lan Fan barely noticed. There was something off about the Emperor’s qi, some knot of tension she couldn’t make out. Her palm was sweating for some reason. She wiped it against her deel.

“How is Chang working out?” Chang stiffened at being addressed so directly, and she thought he might be fighting the urge to fling himself to the floor. “He hasn’t bothered your routine too much?”

“Guardsman Chang has been an invaluable ally, majesty. Thank you for placing him with me.”

Even though she’d fixed her gaze on the wall just over the Emperor’s shoulder, she could still see it when his smile shifted from court to human. It made her heart clench uncomfortably. “I’m glad that you feel that way. I heard from the Princess Feng, when I met with her yesterday, that you...were unhappy, at first.”

 _Lien Hua, you traitor._ “I’m not accustomed to allowing other people to defend me, majesty. But Chang is—” she felt her ears sting with a blush. “He is a good guard, majesty. I value having him to watch my back.”

There. Neutral enough that Chang couldn’t read anything into her regard for him, but complimentary enough that she wouldn’t anger the Emperor. Still, the Emperor gave her an odd, lingering look before he nodded, lips twitching up. “Good. Where have you been the past few days? I’ve not seen you at the stables or around the Gathering Hall.”

“Recovering, majesty. I was not myself.” _That’s an understatement._

“And you’re feeling better?” There was something, some odd inflection under the words that she couldn’t quite catch. Lan Fan dared a glance at him through her eyelashes, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but of _course_ he was looking right at her. When she dropped her eyes to his hands, she frowned. He’d been hitting something. His knuckles were swollen and split. _Why hasn’t he had one of the court healers look at it?_ It looked fresh.

“I am as well as I can be, considering,” Lan Fan said. “Thank you, majesty.” Then, before she could stop herself, she said, “And you, are you all right?”

The Emperor went very still. Lan Fan cursed herself, ducking her head, stepping back. She’d crossed the line. “My apologies, majesty. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean—”

“No.” Lan Fan shut her mouth. The Emperor reached out, ghosting his fingertips over her shoulder, over the place where metal met flesh. She felt Chang lower his head, back away, out of reach. She wondered if he was trying to give them privacy, and her ears started stinging again. “Thank you. For asking. I don’t mean to worry you.”

Her mouth tasted like dust. Lan Fan swallowed hard, keeping her eyes fixed on the dragon embroidered into the silk on his shoulder. “I can’t help that, majesty.”

Something surged through his qi, so fast she couldn’t catch it. Lan Fan met his eyes and choked. He looked at her as if something was eating him from the inside out. For a single dazzling moment she wondered what would happen if she reached out to touch him. She _wanted_ to touch him. The shock of it made her throat hurt. Before she could even work out what she was thinking, the Emperor lifted his hand, and set his thumb, fore, and middle fingers against the back of her metal wrist. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. He didn’t say anything, just followed the line of one of the metal plates with the edge of his thumb.

“I shouldn’t find that reassuring,” he said. She’d never heard him say anything quite like that before. Muted and hoarse, like he was speaking through a curtain. He was close enough that if she shifted her head just slightly, turned her face, she could hide away in the crook of his shoulder again, the way she’d done in the stable yard. Her lips parted. “But I’ve missed you. More than I expected.”

She sighed. She felt like she ought to be trembling, but when she looked at her hand, it was unsettlingly still. _I am Feiyan Ma_ , she thought. _Feiyan Ma._ Feiyan Ma wouldn’t turn away. Feiyan Ma was braver than Lan Fan Huo could ever be. Feiyan Ma was playing a game that Lan Fan Huo would find inconceivable. “Why?”

“Why?” He caught her gaze, his fingers slipping up, just beneath her sleeve, his thumb pressing flat and bold against where her pulse would have been if not for the metal and wires and blades. “I missed you because I missed you. Because I can rely on you to tell me the truth. Because I like you being near.” He let his hand slip back down again, fingers catching between hers, glancing against and away. “I missed you because I trust you, Lady Ma.”

Lan Fan closed her eyes. She held her breath. She could feel Chang’s embarrassment hot against her back, but it was a faint and distant thing. Master Ling touched his fingertips to hers, ever so lightly—she could barely feel it against her automail—and then he drew his hands back. There was a strange, swollen aching in her chest, like blown glass on the edge of bursting. When it did, it would split her skin apart. His qi signature was almost vibrating as he looked at her, waiting, something heavy and strange in his face, and Lan Fan licked her lips and swallowed to chase away the dryness in her mouth.

“I missed you, too,” she said, so low she barely heard it herself, but Master Ling took a sharp stabbing breath. He lifted his hand, set the pad of his thumb to the skin just beneath the cuts on her cheek, and smoothed it down to her jaw. Then he drew back as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just traced fire down her skin.

“We go shooting tomorrow,” he said. “The weather has finally cleared, and I’ve heard much of the Mas’ skill with a bow and arrow. Will you come?”

It felt as though someone had just tugged the floor out from beneath her feet. Lan Fan nearly staggered. Her mind whirled. “I—who will be there?”

“It’s a small party. The Princess Chang will attend, along with her student—you met him once, I believe, or so he tells me. The Aerugan woman who arrived this week will be attending, and her fiancé. I think my mother has already invited several women she would like to see become Ascending Empress, someday.” He paused. “Will you come, Lady Ma?”

She could feel her heart beating beneath her tongue. “Yes,” she said, without thinking. “I will come.”

Something relaxed in his shoulders. The Emperor—because he was the Emperor again, not Master Ling—reached out and ran his finger down the line of her feathered earring before taking his leave of them. Lan Fan didn’t bow. She didn’t even think of it. She simply watched him go, staring at his back as he walked away, and she kept staring even after he’d turned the corner. It was only when Chang cleared his throat that Lan Fan ducked her head again, slipping back into her skin, closing down her senses and pushing back her heartbeat, her breathing, until there was nothing but silence inside her head.

“Milady?”

She turned back to Chang. He searched her face, and his mouth twisted. She wasn’t sure if he’d found what he was looking for, or lost hold of it. Lan Fan didn’t ask. She just nodded, once, steadied herself, and knocked on Zhang’s door.

Lan Fan wasn’t entirely certain what she’d been expecting. Nobody she knew who had entered Zhang’s sanctum sanctorum had ever described it. Still, when a woman with a smudge of ink on her nose and almost impossibly pale eyes opened the door and blinked at her, she blinked right back.

“I’m here to see Minister Zhang?” she said, after a moment of silence. “He asked that I come for lunch.”

“Oh.” She had a very faint voice, almost transparent. “You must be the Lady Ma. I was wondering when you would arrive.” She stepped back out of the doorway. There was something odd about how she was moving, but Lan Fan couldn’t quite work it out. “Bao has been waiting for you.”

Lan Fan watched the woman for a moment longer, and then stepped over the threshold. Chang followed close behind her. It was all bookshelves in here, with neatly layered scrolls at the front, more modern, spine-backed books down the line. The pale-eyed woman shut the door, and rested her fingers on the nearest shelf, tracing the lines of scrolls. She was staring at nothing, Lan Fan realized. When she snapped a look at Chang, he was watching the woman, too, his lips tight. _Blind_? he mouthed, and Lan Fan nodded. If she noticed anything, the blind woman didn’t mention it. “Bao is this way,” she said. “Follow me.”

Bao Zhang’s office was bright and airy, with beams of sunlight lancing down from a trio of skylights layered with painted glass. Here, it was messier; papers spilled over the edge of the nearest desk, and when she looked down at her feet there was a mess of crumpled notes at the edge of the door. In the far corner of the room there was an empty perch, where a bird might sit. Minister Zhang was sitting at a round table in the center of the room, his head bent over a book that he had set up beside his plate. He didn’t seem to have noticed her. The woman shifted around one of the larger piles on the floor. She was barefoot. “Bao,” she said. “Lady Ma is here. She has someone else with her, I think.”

“Excellent,” said Minister Zhang, and flapped them forward without looking up. He wore a gold ring on the middle finger of his right hand. “Come in. And your—guard, I think he said? The guard, too. Only mind that stack, it took Yue ages to sort it.”

 _Yue?_ Lan Fan thought, but the blind woman had already cleared her throat. “Am I dismissed?”

“Only if you’re not hungry.” Minister Zhang caught Lan Fan’s eye and winked. “It’s your choice.”

“I will return to my work, then,” said Yue. She skated her fingers over the nearest desk until she found a set of bound scrolls, and heaved them into her arms. “The scribes have been slacking lately. I wish to ensure that everything is copied properly before the court moves to Pubuchuan.”

“You work too much.”

“No books at the table,” said Yue, surprisingly tart, and then she vanished through a door hidden behind a curtain.

Minister Zhang closed his book with a huff and set it on the desk behind his chair. “She’s a miser,” he told them. “Forgive her.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Lan Fan. She’d quite liked the woman, actually. It reminded her a little of how effortlessly Lieutenant Hawkeye had managed Colonel Mustang, back in Amestris. “Who is she?”

“My first chancellor, a first-ranked mathematician, and an excellent flautist, among other things.” He glanced sideways at them, a laughing look that was reminiscent of Alphonse Elric. “I collected her in Song-guo, when I was fostered with my cousins. They offered her a position with them, but she said that palace work interested her more. And here we are.” He sighed. “I keep telling her she can go to the mathematics college whenever she wants, but she says that if she lets me be I’ll burn the palace down. So here we are.”

Yes, she thought. _Definitely_ like Lieutenant Hawkeye and Colonel Mustang.

“Anyway, I blabber. Sit down, both of you.” Chang flinched. Minister Zhang frowned. “Yes, you too. You’re too tall, I’ll break my neck looking up at you.”

“This one is a guard, my lord,” said Chang, looking very wary. “This one would not dishonor my lord by doing such a thing.”

“That one ought to listen to my lordliness and sit down to eat something, because that one looks dead on his feet.”

Chang looked at Lan Fan. Lan Fan very carefully settled herself into her own chair, and said nothing. After a long moment of silence, Chang sank down onto the last empty chair, barely perched on the very edge of the seat, so that he might leap up and draw his sword at any moment. Thankfully, that seemed to satisfy Minister Zhang, who spooned himself a bowl of rice and passed it to Lan Fan across the table

“To be entirely honest, I was wondering if you were actually going to show.” He filled another bowl of rice, and gave it to Chang, who looked at it as if it were a snake. “Don’t worry, I’m pleased you did. Still, there was no reason for you to believe the invitation actually came from me. I might not leave my office much, but I have ears everywhere, and they tell me that your reception at court hasn’t been the most positive.”

Lan Fan bit her tongue, and looked down at her plate to collect her chopsticks. “It hasn’t been as bad as it could have been,” she said, when the silence grew too heavy to deny it any longer. “I have heard of worse presentations, from my cousins.”

“As have I, though I don’t think anyone else has given Huian Yao such spectacular hemorrhoids since before the Retired Emperor passed, may the heavens bless and keep him.” Lan Fan choked on her mouthful of rice. Minister Zhang ignored it. “You seem not to care what the court thinks of you. The Dowager doesn’t frighten you; my lovely compatriot of the Right doesn’t frighten you; not even assassins, from what people have told me. The stories were intriguing.”

Lan Fan collected the mug of tea that had been left by her plate, and inhaled half of it in an attempt to steady herself. “I’m not a very interesting person,” she said, once she’d swallowed. “I don’t like court much. I’m here because—”

“Because of your cousin, yes, First Governor Song told me.” He waved this away. “Quite kind of you, to come all this way to be with her during her pregnancy. I just think that for someone who rode out to be Suyin Yao’s companion during her time of need, you’re spending an awful lot of time at court.”

Something clattered against the skylight. Lan Fan and Chang looked up just in time to see a large black bird force itself through the gap between window and roof. The crow swept the room in a wide circle before it spread its wings and landed, curling its long nails over the edge of the table. Minister Zhang ran his forefinger down its cheek, and fed it a bit of meat from his plate. “He’s well-mannered,” he said to Chang, who was frowning. “He won’t bite unless you bite him first.”

Lan Fan hesitated. Then she held out her flesh arm, and waited. The crow cocked its head at her with a beady look, and then shuffled along the edge of the table to nudge at her fingers with its beak. He was a beautiful thing, she thought. There was a strange white dappling on the underside of his left wing. “I never knew you kept crows, Minister.”

“I don’t keep crows. This one just keeps me.” Minister Zhang sighed. “All my life strays have decided that I am to be their shelter in the storm.” He looked rather pleased about it. “He drives Shen Liu mad, so I keep him here with me in the palace. He feeds himself, and he’s even picked up a few human words. Crows mimic, you know.”

Lan Fan offered the crow a bit of pork from her plate. The crow considered it, and then her, and then took it delicately from her fingers.

“First Governor Song told me that you were teaching her nomadic traditions,” said Minister Zhang. “She said you’ve been very helpful.”

“I’ve told her what I know.” Lan Fan gave the crow another bit of meat, not looking at Minister Zhang. “And that’s only half the battle, with all the different tribes she’ll have to speak with.”

“Still, it’s a very good start.” Minister Zhang tilted his head just slightly. “If we want to see something done, then we have to begin doing it ourselves. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Lan Fan shrugged. “I wish to help.”

“That’s what I thought.” Minister Zhang tapped his fingers twice against the table, and the crow returned to him. Chang never took his eyes off it. “Much of what you’ve done to send the court into a tailspin seems to have simply been ‘to help.’ The slums jockey, for one. Saving the Fengs. Saving the Emperor’s life. Begging mercy for the old Shadow.” It took a miracle for Lan Fan to hold back her flinch. “Even teaching First Governor Song of the nomads. Forgive me if this offends, Lady Ma, but it all seems—very _involved_ for someone who doesn’t plan to be here past next May.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” said Lan Fan. Her skin felt clammy. Minister Zhang shrugged.

“Call me curious.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for it.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I don’t think there needs to be an explanation for trying to do the right thing.”

Something shifted in Minister Zhang’s face, as if a beam of sunlight had fallen on it. “No, there doesn’t. Still, your—reactive tendencies are interesting. You don’t seem to _seek_ change, you’re reacting to situations others present, and force change instead.”

Lan Fan shrugged again. It seemed about as good a description for the past few weeks as anything. “I suppose. I assume you have a point, Minister.”

Chang rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, as if he were begging for strength from the spirits. Lan Fan wondered for a moment if Minister Zhang would snarl at her. He just beamed, as if she’d done something particularly clever, and started petting his crow again.

“Your tendency to be reactive rather than proactive is quite possibly the only thing that keeps you from making quite a political stir, Lady Ma.” The crow made a cooing sound, like a baby in the crib. “Have you considered the power you could wield, if you joined with one of the major families at court? You might be able to change imperial policy where others have failed. You’re already part of the way there by meeting with First Governor Song and the Rosethorns. Have you ever considered it?”

“Not particularly.” Goose bumps rose on her skin. “I’m not meant for politics, Minister. I never was. Power doesn’t interest me.”

“But you have more of it than you think you do. The Emperor likes you. The Fengs like you. First Governor Song likes you. Even in that, you’ve allied three families who have rarely seen eye-to-eye simply because you exist.”

For a moment, she thought she heard Xinzhe whispering in her ear. _You hate it and you don’t care._ “I only think they like me because of how much I dislike court things, Minister. I don’t lie to them. They—they appreciate that, I think.”

“Which is even more important, because they _trust_ you.” He was pushing her towards something. She just wasn’t certain what it was, yet. “I would be the first to tell you to avoid politics, Lady Ma. I spend my days in these rooms and in the gardens, avoiding them all. The two-faced treachery of it makes my skin crawl. I’m a recluse, and I’m known to be a recluse, and because of that I think I can see opportunities where other people see roadblocks.”

“If you have something you want me to do, Minister Zhang, please just say it. I don’t enjoy talking around things.”

“There are those at court who would like to see the status quo uprooted,” said Minister Zhang, cool as mist. “Our system is outdated. If we’re not careful, we’ll be left behind. Xing must change, or we’ll simply collapse under the weight of our own history, our own promises, and we’ll become what Creta was four decades ago: a miserable tributary nation, ruled by people who are not our own, ordered in war and peace. I don’t want that. I don’t think you want that either, even if you’re a nomad.”

Her heart was pounding again, but for very different reasons. “And what am I supposed to do about that?”

“You have more power than you realize.” Minister Zhang folded his hands on the table. “I’ve discussed it with First Governor Song. She wants to put forward a proposal to the Emperor, before the Gathering ends. To form a coalition, a committee of investigators, if you will, to look into the atrocities committed by previous governments. I want you to be on it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are one of the Ma. You’ve spoken in defense of the Nohin, brought the massacre back into the light. You protect the common people of Xinjing.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “People may hate you, and think you naïve for your honesty, but that same honesty means that people believe what you say. If you join this committee you’ll be hearing witnesses, documenting atrocities. You’ll be bringing forward what previous administrations have tried to hide. You’ll be helping to bring justice back to the court.”

“And what does that have to do with the status quo?”

“Everything,” said Minister Zhang. “There are those in power who have made their lives through keeping things like the Nohin massacre in the shadows. By dragging it into the light, the corruption of it, the stains, you can oust them from office. People like Shen Liu and the Empress, they’re part of what’s holding our empire back. If we get rid of them—”

“You’re speaking treason,” said Chang.

“I’m not saying we should kill them,” snapped Minister Zhang. “ _That_ would be treason, and I’m no traitor. I’m saying that there are people in power who are abusing that power, and that they should be prevented from continuing to use our people and our nation in their silly, ineffectual games. As long as they get to play out their plots and keep their people in power, they don’t give a damn about those who are suffering beneath them. The poor in Xinjing, the refugees and the abused, they mean _nothing_ to the people in this palace.”

“That’s not true,” said Lan Fan.

Minister Zhang waved a hand. “Perhaps not entirely, but to those who are in power? They’re less than dirt. You saw what the Empress tried to do to the Shadow—a woman who, so far as I can remember, has been nothing but loyal, and did all she could to prevent what happened to you and His Imperial Majesty, may he live ten thousand years. But she was in the way of whatever the Dowager is plotting, and so she tried to have her killed. Tell me that’s not injustice.”

Her eyes were burning. Lan Fan blinked furiously. “You know that I can’t.”  

“The rot of them is staining everything,” said Minister Zhang, his voice low and rough and fierce. It swept her away like a tsunami, set her spinning, unable to breathe. “It mustbe removed. What they’ve done to this country _has_ to be repaired. Otherwise we’ll fall just as surely as Creta did, and no matter how good the Emperor’s intentions are, there’s nothing we’ll be able to do to stop it.”

“Percentages,” said the crow. Lan Fan and Chang jumped. Minister Zhang simply closed his eyes, and stroked the crow’s cheek again. When he opened his eyes again, he’d softened. The fire was gone. No, not gone—banked. She could still see it burning, but it was hidden away again. He sipped his tea, and sighed.

“I’m not asking you for an answer right now, Lady Ma. It’s a step that you might not be inclined to take, and I refuse to force you into it. I’m no one to judge if you’d rather stay out of the thing entirely. I simply ask that you think about it, because I feel—and more importantly, First Governor Song feels—that without you the enterprise may fail.”

 _And then we’ll be back at the start,_ Lan Fan thought. _Families killing families for a chance at the imperial throne._

She was not very hungry anymore. Lan Fan set her cup down, and stood. Chang stood with her, his hand falling back to his sword. Minister Zhang tilted his head again, like his crow might, and waited.

“Give me until the end of the Gathering,” she said. “Let me think about it until then.”

Minister Zhang sighed. “First Governor Song was going to propose the committee to his majesty on the day before the closing ceremonies. Will that suffice?”

 _Three days._ “Yes.”

“Will you not eat, Lady Ma?”

“I’m afraid that I’ve lost my appetite.” She bowed to him, her feather earrings tickling at her cheek again. “But thank you for the invitation, Minister. I was honored by your invitation.”

Minister Zhang smiled. “The honor is mine, I think.”

Lan Fan looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned on her heel and left the room, Chang close at her back. She left the administration building and the Gathering Hall; she left the palace and Feiyan Ma. She put on her dragon mask, and she went to Xuqu, because beating muggers bloody was the only way she was going to make her hands stop shaking.

*

It was nearly eleven o’clock at night when Lan Fan finally peeled herself out of the bath and returned to her rooms near the kitchen gardens. She’d dismissed Chang for the night—he needed the sleep more than she did, she was sure, considering the depth of the bruises under his eyes. Niu Lu was off somewhere, reporting to Princess Chang or to Suyin or to the Commander or someone else entirely. For once, her rooms were entirely, blessedly hers, and she was going to take advantage of the solitude.

 _A committee._ She opened a box on her dressing table, and pulled her automail oil free of its confines. The polishing rag beneath the false bottom. _A committee to root out corruption._ It wasn’t unprecedented. The Wheel Emperor had done the same thing, set up a committee to study all court spending, to analyze all political decisions and grade them in terms of personal or political profit. Nor were committees to air grievances against the administration. But one that did _both_ …she dabbed oil onto the polishing cloth. It must have happened before, once upon a time, but she’d never heard of it. People wouldn’t like it. And if Governor Song and Minister Zhang wanted her to be part of it, then they were mad. Feiyan Ma being on the committee would destroy its credibility.

_Why would they want me?_

No, they wanted Feiyan Ma. She had to remember that. Lan Fan dabbed at her finger joints. Feiyan Ma had presented herself as someone who refused to be pandered to; who defended those who could not defend themselves. It had been unintentional on her part, and she still thought that Minister Zhang was overestimating her abilities, but the court had that image of her all the same. A rough, rude, shockingly honest, impossibly fierce nomad woman who disdained all the meanderings of politics. In that light, asking Feiyan Ma to be part of the commission which would investigate the Nohin massacres was a sound move. There would be talk of her bias, thanks to her nomadic heritage, but there was always talk of bias.

 _Bias._ Lan Fan Huo had no more and no less bias than Feiyan Ma did. _My father. My brother._ She scraped her fingernails down a metal plate to dislodge a chunk of dried blood, ignoring the way her hand was trembling. _My grandmother._

But Feiyan Ma wasn’t Nohin. Nor, she told herself, was Lan Fan Huo. She drew in a breath— _in for seven, hold it, out for eleven_ —and returned to her work.

The Fengs might be less willing to speak with her, if she joined the committee. For all that Lien Hua had been proud of her to spit in Huian Yao’s eye (Lien Hua’s phrasing, not Lan Fan’s) somehow Lan Fan doubted that she’d appreciate Feiyan Ma looking into political corruption. Especially considering why Lan Fan was spying on the Fengs in the first place. The memories of the Yao spies, of the dead messenger on the Qarashi border, curled icy fingers around her ankles. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—jeopardize the mission she’d been given by her master. Not when she’d learned so much.

 _But the Fengs want Huian Yao dead_. If there was another option, a bloodless option, maybe…

 _I want this_ , Lan Fan realized, and nearly dropped her polishing cloth with the shock of it. She _wanted_ to be a part of the committee. She wanted to investigate these things, the injustices and the tortures that had never seen the light of day. She wanted to offer an answer. She wanted to work with Lady Song, with Minister Zhang, with whoever else would be on the committee. She wanted it. Her skin was itching with how badly she wanted it.

Lan Fan dipped her rag into the oil bottle again. Did the Emperor know of the Minister’s idea for a committee? Would he approve of it? She thought he would. (She felt the brush of his fingers over her cheek again, and swallowed hard.) It wasn’t the Feng investigation, but it was just as important in its own way. It was, she thought, a weapon in its own right.

_Maybe if I can’t guard him one way, I can do it in another._

Feiyan Ma would do it. Feiyan Ma wouldn’t hesitate. But Lan Fan wasn’t wholly Feiyan Ma, and Lan Fan had a commander to report to. She wiped the excess oil off of her arm with a dry bit of the cloth, and sighed. She would talk to Commander Yao in the morning, before she went to shoot with the Emperor. ( _His fingers on her cheek, brushing against hers, the look on his face—_ ) She would attend to them after Suyin’s dawn ride, and inform them of what Minister Zhang had asked, if they hadn’t already heard about it from Chang. And then she would think.

_Three days._

There was a soft scratch at the door. Lan Fan frowned, and opened her walls, just a bit. _Tissue paper and emeralds_ —that was Lien Hua. The only other person she could sense was the Orchid woman next door, who was asleep. She stood, casting the polishing rag to the side, and tugged her qi back under control again. “Who is it?”

“Lien Hua,” said Lien Hua. “Let me in, swallow-girl.”

Lan Fan pulled a shirt on over her breast bindings and automail, and tugged the door open. Lien Hua was dressed in dark clothes—and trousers, of all things—her hair bound up tight against the back of her head. She glanced over her shoulder once, and then met Lan Fan’s gaze. “Is anyone else here?”

“No, just me—Lien Hua, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Lien Hua, but when she pushed her way into Lan Fan’s rooms, Lan Fan could see her shaking. “Nothing’s—nothing’s wrong. I needed someplace to go, that’s all.”

Lan Fan looked up and down the corridor once, and then shut her door and bolted it. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing _happened_.” Lien Hua dug her nails into her palms, staring at the window. Lan Fan went and pulled the shutters, closing it up tight. She couldn’t feel anybody in the kitchen gardens, but it seemed to ease Lien Hua’s mood some; her shoulders relaxed a bit. “Nothing happened. I just—”

She bit her tongue. Lan Fan thought, for a moment, about reaching out to her. Then she remembered that Lien Hua would probably bite her good hand off if she tried. She dropped down onto the edge of her bed instead. “Lien Hua.”

Lien Hua whipped around, the ends of her high ponytail stinging her cheek. The white streak flickered like clouds through the dark. “ _What_?”

“You’re shaking,” said Lan Fan, and Lien Hua looked down at her clenched fists. Her eyes widened. “Sit down. Or pace. Or do something. Don’t break my walls.”

Lien Hua let out a harsh coughing sound that reminded Lan Fan of Bao Zhang’s crow, and began to walk. She stayed in tight circles at first, and then lengthened out, back and forth between the door and the window and the door again. The candle flickered every time she passed it. Lan Fan drew her legs up onto the bed and watched her do it, her chin propped up on her knees. Finally, Lien Hua whirled. “You’re not going to ask again?”

“Will you tell me if I do?” Lan Fan replied. Lien Hua frowned, and seriously considered that. Then she shrugged.

“Probably. If you ask.”

Lan Fan blinked. “Really?”

“You didn’t tell anyone about Xinzhe and Mingli,” Lien Hua said. Her eyes narrowed. “You know about them and you didn’t say anything. Did you?”

She swallowed. “You didn’t either.”

“He’s my brother. Of course I wouldn’t say anything.” She fiddled with the cuffs of her sleeves. “I don’t want him dead. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“Mingli is my friend. Xinzhe is…” Lan Fan struggled for a moment. “He’s your brother. I like him, even if he’s an ass. I don’t want them dead, either.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone.” Lien Hua’s eyes burned. “You could have told someone, your cousins, the Emperor. You didn’t.”

“It’s not my secret to tell.”

Lien Hua stared at her for a long time. Then she clambered up on the bed next to Lan Fan, folding her hands over her knees. She watched her for a time, simply considering. Then, slowly, she said. “You don’t tell peoples’ secrets.”

Lan Fan shook her head. Lien Hua wasn’t wearing makeup, she realized. No makeup, no perfume, no jewelry. Like she was trying to fade into the background. There were bruises under her eyes. “Lien Hua, are you all right?”

For a second, Lien Hua tensed to run. Then she sagged. She rested her head on Lan Fan’s human shoulder, the uninjured one, the one she hadn’t help reset, and she went boneless. Lan Fan nearly fell over with the weight of her, but then she caught herself against the edge of the mattress. Lien Hua was shivering. She reached up, hesitated, and then touched Lien Hua’s shoulder. “Lien Hua?”

“We’re losing everything, Feiyan.” Her voice was cracked. “There was a message from my mother. The firebrands are burning our cities down. It’s all over the court. My country is dying, and I’m stuck here playing out a game that has no guarantee of winning. I can’t help anyone.”

Lan Fan clenched her metal fingers into the bedspread. Then she patted awkwardly at Lien Hua’s shoulder, not sure what else to do. Lien Hua didn’t seem to notice. She sniffed, and to Lan Fan’s horror, she realized that Lien Hua was on the edge of tears. Lan Fan didn’t speak for a minute or two. Then she said, “Lien Hua, tell me what’s frightened you.”

Lien Hua choked a laugh again. Lan Fan’s shoulder was getting damp. “Will you keep that secret, too? Will you take on all of our secrets eventually, swallow-girl? Turn into a walking safe house for all of our sins?”

Lan Fan swallowed. “I hope not. That sounds uncomfortable.”

Lien Hua sighed. She played with the end of her ponytail. Then she lifted her head, and searched Lan Fan’s face. Lan Fan wondered how long she’d been using makeup to hide the caverns under her eyes. They were so deep they looked like wounds. Lien Hua lifted her hand and set two fingertips to Lan Fan’s cheek, just beneath where the Emperor had touched her, right beside the scratches.

“Do you hate her?” she asked. “The Empress.”

That was easy. The Empress had destroyed her life. The Empress had stolen away her name. “Yes.”

“More than anything?”

She’d thought, once, that it was the Fengs she would hate more than anything. That wasn’t the case now. “No,” Lan Fan repeated, not looking away from Lien Hua, not breaking the gaze. “I hate injustice more than anything. I hate seeing people in pain. I hate bullies. And Huian Yao is a bully. So I hate her. But not more than anything.”

“I hate her more than anything.” Lien Hua rocked back onto the bed, her eyes hard. “I hate her more than the court, more than Aiguo Cao. I hate her more than the world.”

The moment hung, suspended, a fly in a spider’s web.

“Why?” said Lan Fan, barely breathing.

Lien Hua turned her head. She was hollow, too, Lan Fan realized. That same emptiness she’d seen in the Emperor was here, now, in Lien Hua, eating away at her like rust.

“She’s tried to kill me,” said Lien Hua. “She’s tried to kill my brothers. But I hate her because she poisoned my mother, and killed my little sister in the womb. I hate her because she hates us, but I’m stronger than she is, and someday soon, she’s going to die.” She laughed. “What do you think of that, Feiyan Ma?”

Lan Fan Huo didn’t say anything at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. I haven't updated in so long because:
> 
> >I was promoted at work.  
> >I've been sick on and off for months.  
> >I've had psychological issues.  
> >As I explained last chapter, my baby cousin died of SIDS.  
> >Also in the death realm, one of my best friends lost two people who were very important to her, and in turn that meant they were important to me.  
> >I landed a job teaching English in Japan, and have been preparing for that. (I leave in July.)  
> >I've been distracted by The Hobbit.
> 
> It's a combination of all of them, so pick whichever reason makes you hate me the least and go with it. :3


	22. Rifle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Seven months later. I'm back. Ish? I'm working full time in Japan (!!!) and don't have a lot of time outside of work, but I'm going to try to update at least once a month from now on. Probably twice, if my scheduling tricks work out well enough. 
> 
> ....yeah.
> 
> SO SO MANY THANKS to my absolutely FANTABULOUS and EXCELLENT and WONDERFUL and DARLING beta, V, who worked her goddamn ass off when I texted her out of the blue to say PLEASE GOD HELP ME V YOU ARE MY ONLY HOPE. All 16k of these words are available to you entirely because of her, and if you don't love on her for that, you're in trouble. 
> 
> DRAMATIS PERSONAE:  
> Lan Fan Huo, or Feiyan Ma, who has a choice to make.  
> Ling Yao, who doesn't get much attention this chapter, poor bae.  
> Lien Hua Feng, who gets a lot of attention this chapter. And also just really needs a girlchat about politics.  
> Suyin Yao, whose new mama feels have hit her hard.  
> Lang, the mute Firestarter with a side job.  
> Alphonse Elric, who we all know and love.  
> Mei Chang, who we all know and love and occasionally want to smack.  
> Caterina della Babarigo, daughter of the Aerugan PM, fiancee of Dong Mao Feng, Lien Hua's brother, and shy baby.  
> Lotus, one of the Fengs retainers, and Still Very Mysterious.  
> Xiaoqing, half-Qarashi, ex-Firestarter, all spunk and grit. Also, a dash of healer thrown in.  
> Xiao Niao Song, First Governor of Song-Guo, matriarchal badass.  
> Bao Zhang (mentioned,) Imperial Minister and Miroku-impersonator. 
> 
> For those who don't remember/haven't looked at this in a while: Lien Hua is going to tell Lan Fan/Feiyan Ma why she hates the Empress. The Empress has had Lan Fan's actual identity banished for "failing to defend the Emperor." Ling is sad. Lan Fan is having a crisis of identity. Lien Hua is just real pissed and needs to talk to someone about it.

**Twenty-One: Rifle**

“She killed your sister?”

Lan Fan sat very still on the bed, hands clasped in her lap. She wasn’t sure if she _could_ do anything else. Her blood had frozen in her veins, and if she moved, her whole body was going to crack to pieces. Lien Hua dropped her hand away from Lan Fan’s cheek, and hooked her hair out of her eyes.

“She poisoned my mother,” she said again. “My mother—she was favored by the Retired Emperor. When she fell pregnant for a second time, six years after my brothers and I were born—” A second time, after triplets; a second time, after two sons and a daughter; a second time for her to prove her worth beyond anything Huian Yao had ever been able to do; Lan Fan winced “—Huian Yao sent my mother tea that was laced with half a dozen different things. Lead, primarily. The same poison that was used on you, black scorpion venom. It—my mother lost the baby. She—she’s never recovered. The alkahestrists said that the damage to her nerves was irreparable. She—half the time she can’t even manage getting out of bed, and the rest, she sometimes—”

Lien Hua stopped. She didn’t seem to be able to say anything more. Lan Fan slipped off the bed, rolled up her sleeve, and started to oil down her arm again to hide the way her fingers were shaking. Lien Hua watched her with careful eyes, half-peeking through her lashes. She thought of the bruise to Aiguo Cao’s face, his broken nose. Tissue and emeralds and a cyanide smile, that was Lien Hua Feng. Not this girl trembling on the end of Lan Fan’s bed, waiting for an answer.

“I told you that a man from the Qiao tried to assassinate us when we were seven years old,” Lien Hua said. Her voice was getting stronger. “And—it was a man from the Retired Emperor’s household, yes. But my mother—she has a network spanning across the entire empire, from her time as a wife in the Imperial Household. She learned—when we were nine, and she was finally strong enough to start working again, she learned that the person who had sent that assassin to us had been Huian Yao. Despite—in spite of everything that had happened to my mother, the poison, the miscarriage—” the word cracked “—the Tea Leaf Emperor still loved her very dearly. Or—or so people tell me. I don’t remember ever meeting him, before he summoned us for the Quest.”

 _The Quest._ _Find me eternal life, or die trying._ The Quest that had taken her, her grandfather, and her master to Amestris. The Quest that had brought her back missing an arm, and her master wearing new scars on his soul. _The Quest._ “The Quest?”

“A competition. My—the Retired Emperor said that whoever could bring him the solution to eternal life would be the next to take his place on the throne.” She scoffed. “It was ridiculous—if he lived forever, why on earth would he ever wish to give up the throne?—but he called, and we answered. My brothers and I, we searched through Feng-guo. There’s a legend near the coast about mermaids and immortality. The Emperor, a thousand years may he reign, went west to Amestris, hunting after alchemists. And he succeeded, where the rest of us failed. Which put Huian Yao exactly in the position she always wished to be—theEmpress Dowager. Ultimate power, or as close as you can get to it if you’re not an Imperial Cousin.” Lien Hua’s eyes tracked Lan Fan’s hand as she wadded up the polishing rag, drew the point she’d made between the lines of two metal plates on her automail. She twisted her fingers into the hem of her dark tangzhuang. “Do you think my family is the only one she’s ruined in her—her _greed_? I can promise you, there are a dozen more families like us. Hundreds if you count those outside the palace. She wrecks and wrecks and wrecks. She just _wants_. All she wants is the world, and she wants it crammed into her ribs where no one else can get at it.”

 _Greed_ , Lan Fan thought, and a flash of an ouroborous pressed in behind her eyes. Red irises, sharp teeth, grapheme skin. _Greed_. But Greed had redeemed himself, in his own way. She’s not sure about the Empress.

“That’s why she hates you,” Lien Hua said. “That’s—that’s why she did that to your face. Don’t lie and say she didn’t, it’s obvious to anyone with a brain. She hates you because in the three years since the Emperor’s ascended you’re the closest that anyone’s ever come to budging her from her spot at the top of the manure pile. She’s _used_ to being in charge.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re upset,” said Lan Fan, without looking up from her arm. “Or why you needed to come here.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Lien Hua leaned back, away from her. “ _My country is dying_. There’s—there’s an army of lunatics marching its way across Feng-guo and burning us to the ground. And I’m trapped here, doing nothing, when I could be at home helping my mother. I could be at home leading my militia and I’m stuck here waiting to marry a damned Cao and—”

She cut herself off. Lien Hua shut her eyes, swallowed once, twice. Lan Fan watched her, trying very hard not to breathe. She thought that if she breathed, she might shatter whatever fragile sense of trust had dragged Lien Hua to her door.

“And what?” she said.

Lien Hua shuddered all over. She snapped her eyes open. Then, with no warning, she shot up off the bed. “Come with me,” she said. “I need to introduce you to someone.”

There wasn’t really a question. Lan Fan still stared at her polishing rag for a breath, two, before setting it aside, and going to find a jacket.

Lien Hua didn’t take her along the hallways or through the regular paths of the palace. Instead, she stuck to the servant’s halls, keeping her head down and her eyes away. If the men and women they passed realized they were walking within a foot of an imperial cousin, they didn’t let on. One or two caught Lan Fan’s eye, but said nothing. Lan Fan stayed close to Lien Hua’s back, trying to keep the way her heart was beating from showing on her face. In the back of her head, she could practically _hear_ all the reports from the Qarashi border. _Feng agents in play._ And after that, they were never heard from again. Four Yaos, all of them loyal, all of them dead, and a single Feng agent dead with his tongue severed at the root. The man had died rather than give up Feng secrets. Lien Hua might just be leading her to the answer.

And then—what? She was here as Feiyan Ma until Suyin had her baby. Lan Fan Huo was dead. If she found the answer, if she discovered the truth now, what on earth was there left for her to do?

 _It all seems—very_ involved _for someone who doesn’t plan to be here past next May._

One moment at a time. She sped up, and took her place by Lien Hua’s side, walking shoulder to shoulder with her. She wasn’t Lien Hua’s bodyguard. She wasn’t anything other than Lien Hua’s unexpected companion. Possibly a friend. She’d take it one moment at a time. There had never been any guarantees.

 _The Fengs like you._ And _you hate it and you don’t care._ In the bottom of her stomach, something curled, sick and twisting and wormy, a knot of ice in her throat. Once it was done, what would that mean for the triplets?

_The Dowager dies first._

_One moment at a time,_ she thought again.

Lien Hua finally stopped just out of sight of the Meridian Gate. In the grey night, the coral paint and terracotta shingles were all cast in shades of brown. She leaned back against the wall, just for a moment, like she was preparing herself for something. Then she curled one hand into a loose fist, and made a cooing noise. _Dove,_ Lan Fan thought. Lien Hua dropped her hands again, curling them against her hips.

“He’ll be here in a minute,” she said.

“Who will?”

“Just—I have to think of what to tell him. Don’t—don’t _talk_ , swallow-girl. Let me talk to him first. All right? Just don’t—don’t say _anything_.”

Lan Fan nodded, and fell silent. Lien Hua began to pace, in the same loose circles she’d used in Lan Fan’s rooms. Lan Fan could feel a prickle of _qi_ against her shields, a question from Chang, and she shut it down immediately. The last thing that she needed right now was a bodyguard bursting out of nowhere to ruin whatever sort of meeting this was going to turn out to be. _A dove call._ Subtle, but not a sound that could go very far, unless the listener had a very broad range of hearing. Which meant a standing meet, or whoever Lien Hua was looking for wandered the Meridian Gate frequently enough that the opportunity was easy to take. Which meant—her brain was buzzing—a servant, or a guard, or someone who could get in and out of the palace easily. A tradesman, maybe—but no, a tradesman wouldn’t still be in the palace complex this late at night, and definitely not this close to the Meridian Gate, not so near the Hall—

Cavern water and dust. Lan Fan went stiff around the shoulders. _I’ll see you soon, Ying._ But no, it wasn’t Huli. This was the _qi_ signature that had whisked Huli away during her and Chang’s hunt through the city, the glimpse of a hidden ally that kept her from being able to demand answers.

Lan Fan crushed her _qi_ signature down into something the size of a walnut, and kept her face blank and smooth.

Lien Hua didn’t say anything. She made two quick gestures—a wave, a command—and a long lanky shadow slipped out of the dark. He was dressed in the uniform of one of the gardeners, green robes and worn gloves, but there was something about the eyes that made her think of a predator. He moved like one, too, smooth and quiet, barely stirring the gravel. The man watched Lan Fan for a moment or two, nostrils flaring, and then gestured back to Lien Hua, sedate and quizzical where Lien Hua was sudden and sharp. Lien Hua made an irritable noise at the back of her throat.

“Swallow-girl,” she said. “This is Lang. He’s a mole I’ve been in contact with since the Dawn Emperor ascended the throne. Lang, this is the nomad.”

Lang inclined his head, carefully. He was watching her. Lan Fan didn’t take her eyes off him as she said, “How did you come across him?”

“He was one of my brother’s bodyguards in Feng-guo. Dong Mao, not Xinzhe. My mother sent him out here when my dear cousin took the throne.”

 _Did she_ , thought Lan Fan. “And he’s been reporting to you this whole time?”

“When we asked him to.” Lien Hua glanced at the guards near the Meridian Gate, and stepped back further into the shadows. Lang followed without a word. _Mute_ , Lan Fan thought. The perfect eavesdropper. The perfect double-agent. “It’s only been the past year or so that he’s had anything really relevant to tell us.”

She couldn’t make out any hint of a firestarter amulet around his neck. That didn’t mean one wasn’t there, of course. But there was no hint of it. “Lang,” she said, slowly. “That means _wolf,_ doesn’t it?”

“He’s mute,” said Lien Hua. “Not deaf. You can ask him yourself if you like.”

Lang’s eyes crinkled at the corners. His _qi_ signature flared again, teasing. She glared. _What the hell do you think you’re doing here, firestarter?_

“It means a lot of things, swallow-girl. I don’t know how he writes it. It’s not as if he signs his reports.” Lien Hua cocked her head at Lang, who signed a few more things. She waited until he’d stuck his hands back into his pockets before saying, “He says you’re right, though. He does use the character for wolf.”

 _Firestarter. He’s a firestarter._ The words stuck to the roof of her mouth. This was exactly how it felt to confront Fuhrer Bradley’s men, she thought. This same crystalline rage. She shouldn’t be so furious about someone threatening the Fengs, but now—she didn’t want to think about the reason why. “Where did he come from?”

Lien Hua cut her a sidelong glance. “Bianjiehu. Why are you asking so many questions?”

 _Because he’s a spy_ , she nearly said. But something—she thought it might be Suyin, or Niu Lu, or even Lien Hua herself, talking quietly in the dark—made her press her lips together, forced the words away. If she called Lang a firebrand to his face, he could drive a dagger into Lien Hua’s back before the word was even out her mouth. Or try to, at least—Lan Fan was reasonably certain she could stop him before he hit anything vital—but she’d rather not deal with three assassination attempts in less than a month. It just seemed highly inconvenient.

 “Nothing,” she said. “Just—I haven’t met a spy like this before.”

Lang’s eyes widened, just a little.

“Of course you have,” said Lien Hua. “They just haven’t been stupid enough to stick their necks out like Lang is doing right now.”

“What does this have to do with everything you said before? About—about the Fires of God—” she _did not_ look at Lang “—and the—you know.”

Lien Hua looked over at the guards near the Meridian Gate. Then she swore under her breath. “Dong Mao is going to kill me.”

“Since when do you care what your brother thinks?”

For a second, Lan Fan thought Lien Hua would hit her. Then she bared her teeth in a smile. “He’s my brother. I always care what he thinks. I just don’t always care _enough_.”

 _That’s the spirit_. Lan Fan crossed her arms over her chest, tipped her head. The smell of the polishing oil was still catching in her nose. Lang shifted from foot to foot, creeping deeper into the darkness beyond the wall. He was standing at Lien Hua’s shoulder. All Lan Fan could think, for a moment, was of Huli at the Chang party, the rope in her hands and the blade he’d stolen from her. _You don’t know what’s right, little one._ “You sent Lang here to watch?”

“Six months ago my mother’s people started sending in reports about the conflict on the Qarashi border.” A guard stopped just beyond the wall, looked back and forth. Lien Hua shut up. A minute later, he was gone again, and she pressed Lan Fan back closer into the wall, whispering. “A raiding party attacked a Xingese guard patrol. No one died, but it was nearly classified as an act of war. Lang sent us information that implied that the Empress Dowager was the one who was behind the attack.”

Lan Fan opened her mouth, and closed it again. Her voice was gone. Finally, she croaked, “That’s—that’s not possible.”

“Of course it isn’t,” said Lien Hua impatiently. “The Dowager has no reasonto invite Qarash to attack Xing. It doesn’t suit her plan, whatever that is. She wants to stay in power, not destroy the Empire. Still, it’s not a rumor that someone would make up without reason, so we started digging. Feng-guo is one of the few countries in the whole empire that takes in ana-Qarashi refugees without years of bureaucratic paperwork—we’re easily accessible by the Longfeng River, and we don’t care what your religion is, so long as you’re willing to do the work we ask of you and not cause too much trouble in your comings and goings. We thought at first that someone on the Qarashi side was trying to start a conflict, but that wasn’t the case either; the Priest-King has to know how vulnerable his country would be if Xing decided to throw the whole of its armies against it. We’re at least four times the size of Qarash, we’d crush them in a moment.”

Her head was spinning. She still wasn’t quite sure what to say. “What did you find?”

“We sent in three Feng men,” said Lien Hua. She was talking faster, now, the words spilling out. “One of them died in Yao custody, or so we think, we never had any evidence about where he went. Out of the other two, one end up being burned alive at a firebrand’s stake. The other one made it back to Feng-guo. She made her report, but she died two days later. She was poisoned with black scorpion venom.”

Like Lien Hua’s mother, Lan Fan thought. Like the arrow that had gone into her shoulder. “But the Empress wouldn’t—”

“No, not the Empress.” Lien Hua sucked in a deep breath of air. “I think this all links back to the Fires of God. I think that someone—some of the firestarters, maybe, I don’t know—” she spat on the gravel, narrowly missing Lang’s foot “—went to Qarash to incite a war. If they could distract the government with a war against the Priest-King and the Qarashi, they could take Feng-guo without anyone noticing, and then move up to bigger game. Divide and conquer tactic.”

 _Shipping in weapons from Thamasq, starting a war between Xing and Qarash, and rising up against the Empire while we’re distracted in the west; how would Xing survive?_ Thousands of weapons, at least ten thousand firestarters in Xinjing alone—the Empire would collapse into pieces. She couldn’t breathe. _Why did we not put this together? How did we never notice the Fires of God? Spirits, if it’s too late—_ but no, they wouldn’t let it be too late; they _couldn’t_ let it be too late, they just couldn’t. She wouldn’t let it. “I thought the firebrands were—were a religious collective. How would they know anything about military tactics?”

“Their leader’s Amestrian. That whole heaven-forsaken country is full of ex-soldiers. Damn him to all the hells, but Trener—he spent _years_ trying to become a state alchemist. He probably knows the ins and outs of every book of military strategy in that faithless country.” She spat again. “I had some of their textbooks shipped to me from Amestris when trade opened up again after—whatever happened three years ago. The thing is nationalistic poppycock. Preaching garbage about the glories of the Fuhrer, how everyone ought to be willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of the nation-state. I’m a patriot as much as anyone in Xing, but I mourn the generation of Amestrians coming to the forefront of their politics. The next ambassador to cross our borders is going to be a brainwashed sycophant.”

 _The Dowager dies first._ “But you said you were here to work against the Empress.”

“We are.” Lien Hua reached out, touched her fingertips to Lan Fan’s flesh shoulder, where the scar from the firebrand arrow was hidden under her sleeve. “In the six months before my brothers and I came up to the capital, we found four Yao spies in our household. Each time there was no real hint as to where they came from, but—but I have my suspicions.”

She was actually woozy. How on earth was she supposed to breathe? _Spirits, is it even possible? Is that all it is? A misunderstanding? Is every single thing we’ve been terrified of happening because of a simple misunderstanding?_ “The Empress?”

“I think so.” She swallowed. “Dong Mao isn’t so sure. He thinks that the new Emperor’s a lot wilier than he pretends to be. I don’t disagree with him, I just think that the Dawn Emperor, may he live ten thousand years, has more things to do than keep an eye on us.”

 _Spirits, spirits, spirits._ Lan Fan bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. She didn’t flinch. “But—you’re here to work against the Empress.”

“We’re here to find out how deep the infection has spread,” said Lien Hua with chilly certainty. “Whether that infection means the firebrands, or the Empress, it doesn’t matter. But the Feng will have their revenge, swallow-girl. We deserve it. She tried to kill our mother. We refuse to allow her to get away with it.”

Copper traced its way along her teeth, across her tongue. “Why tell me any of this?”

“Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said Lien Hua. “Because I think you have reason to want the Empress dead. Because she wants _you_ dead, or at least out of the way, and the best defense is a good offense. Because you’re useful, and I try to make a habit of not throwing useful things away. Because I could use an ally against the Cao and if I tell you the truth it might make you trust me a little more. Because I trust you.” She shrugged. “Take your pick.”

The blows just kept on coming. _I trust you_. Lan Fan wanted to shake her. _Don’t trust me. I’m lying to you. I’m a spy and I don’t want to be and now my old life is dead._ She was going to be sick. “What about him?” she said, and flicked her eyes towards Lang. Lien Hua didn’t give him a second glance.

“Lang knows where his loyalties lie.”

Lang didn’t sign, or move, or breathe. He didn’t do anything at all. Lan Fan hid her hands behind her back, twisting the first knuckle of her metal forefinger back and forth in an effort to keep the words back. ( _Little more than a month outside the mask and you can never shut up, can you?_ ) Finally, she said, “What about the Emperor?”

Lien Hua blinked, slowly. “What about the Emperor?”

She worked her throat, trying to swallow. Her mouth was too dry to manage it. Lan Fan pushed her metal fingers hard into the palm of her fleshy hand, and bit the tip of her tongue, just for a second. “Are you going to kill him, too?”

Whatever expression was on Lien Hua’s face, Lan Fan couldn’t make it out. It was a mix, wild and shifting, like sunlight through fresh leaves. “No,” she said, finally. “No. My uncle thinks we should. But I don’t agree. He’s—the idea of punishing the son for the sins of the mother leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

The wave of relief was so strong and sudden that it nearly took her out at the knees. Lan Fan put a hand to her mouth, shut her eyes, tried to breathe. _I don’t have to kill them,_ she thought. She would have, if the answer had been yes. There was no question. Lan Fan Huo was dead, but even Feiyan Ma would stand between the Emperor and whatever threats came his way. She would have killed them—Dong Mao, Xinzhe, Lien Hua—but it would have broken her heart to do it. _I don’t have to kill them._ She sent a prayer up to the sky. _Please don’t let her be lying._ “All right,” she said aloud, when she was finally sure she wasn’t going to vomit all over her slippers. “I—Good. All right.”

There was a beat. Lien Hua turned to Lang, and said, “You should probably go, before someone notices you’re out past staff curfew.”

Lang signed something—he pinched his thumb and forefinger together at his bottom lip, drew them down to his sternum in a straight line—and then disappeared. His _qi_ signature flickered a little. It vanished before he’d crossed the courtyard. Still, Lien Hua waited until Lang was out of sight before stepping even closer to Lan Fan, keeping her voice low.

“Do you really like him, then? The Emperor.”

“May he live ten thousand years,” said Lan Fan automatically. She bit her lip. “I don’t—why do you ask?”

Lien Hua arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and just looked at her. Dull heat crept up Lan Fan’s throat and into her cheeks, as if she had something to actually be embarrassed about. She could feel the ghost of fingertips against her cheek, on her automail. _I missed you because I missed you. Because I like you being near._ She had nothing, she told herself, _nothing_ to be embarrassed about, because it was a play, it was an act, it was a trick to get the Feng to want her in their confidence, and if all of this was any indication, then it damn well worked. Still, Lien Hua just let out a breath, and said, “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that.”

“I’m not in love with the Emperor,” said Lan Fan. “I told you. Love is messy and ridiculous.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Lien Hua. She glanced back over her shoulder. Then she hooked her arm through Lan Fan’s, and tugged her away from the wall, tipping her head close into Lan Fan’s so that her whisper could be as quiet as possible. Warm air tickled at Lan Fan’s ear.

“The Emperor—health and strength to his eminence—he doesn’t think like the other Yaos do. You’ve seen them. You know what they’re like. Huian and her kind, they’re laced all through the court. The Emperor, he seems to be trying to change that. My uncle wanted us to push, but—but we said no.” She searched Lan Fan’s eyes, lips parting. “Do you—you believe me. You do believe me.”

“Of course I do.” There was no frission in her _qi_ signature, no hint of a lie on her face. Lan Fan shook her head once, trying to get her hair out of her eyes. “I believe you, obviously. You don’t—you haven’t lied to me yet. Not about something like that.”

“Innocent swallow-girl,” said Lien Hua, her voice odd. For a second, Lan Fan thought she caught the sheen of tears. Then Lien Hua blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a wicked smile. “You really shouldn’t trust people so easily. It’s a big character flaw.”

“I prefer to think that people are better than they’re generally assumed to be,” said Lan Fan. Lien Hua didn’t unwind her arm from Lan Fan’s. In all honesty, it was probably for the better; Lan Fan’s legs were still shaky. _The Empress. The firebrands. Qarash and Thamasq and Shiloh Trener._ She swallowed. “But—why not ask the Emperor for aid? If there’s an uprising in Feng-guo, then—”

“I keep forgetting how little you know of politics.” Lien Hua laughed, bitter as willow bark. “If we were to beg the Emperor for help without even at least trying alone to oust these people from our country, we’d show the whole of Xing how weak Feng-guo actually is.”

Lan Fan opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “But people are _dying_.”

“What do Feng peasants matter to the rich and powerful?” Lien Hua tipped her head like a cat would as it watched a dying bird. “This isn’t one of your precious tribal allegiances, Feiyan. The Fengs have been a part of the Fifty Families for nearly a millennia. We’re not about to sacrifice the image and the status that brings us in the eyes of the Empire for an internal squabble.”

“But if the Firestarters are doing everything you think they are—”

“ _We still need to deal with them ourselves_.” She dug her nails into Lan Fan’s arm. “Internal issues mean internal resolution. If the _blasted_ Fires of God defeat my uncle at Zhangcai, _then_ we can plead for assistance. Until then, we stand our ground.”

“That’s madness.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” She closed her eyes, let out a breath. “My uncle’s no warrior. There’s no way he’ll be able to face down an army like that, even if they’re only peasants. He thinks he can, but he’s wrong. You saw that assassin at the Chang party. These people are trained warriors, even the smallest of them. The standing army in Feng-guo is only fifteen thousand, and none of them have seen real battle since Thamasq. I’m afraid it won’t be enough. And on top of that—” the rhythms of her speech were breaking, shifting into the Feng dialect “—one of my brothers is turning into a drunkard and the other one is ignoring his primary duties, so I’m stuck here, brokering my own marriage and trying my best not to murder my fiancé before we make it past the wedding night. I can’t—”

Her voice snapped apart. Lien Hua made an irritated little chuffing noise from between her teeth, and reached up with her free hand to undo the tight knot of her hair. It fell down in wavy curtains around her face, creased where she’d had it braided. The white streak nearly seemed to glow in the dark. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one that remembers what we’re here for,” she said. “That—that I’m fighting for my family’s future alone.”

Something twisted hard and fast underneath Lan Fan’s sternum. _Alone,_ she thought. A battle fought completely alone. Lan Fan hesitated. Then she put her hand over Lien Hua’s, and squeezed. It looked very strange, her scarred, callused, torn-up hand over Lien Hua’s clean one, but Lien Hua didn’t pull away from her.

“If you need help,” said Lan Fan, “you can always tell me. I promise you.”

Lien Hua’s _qi_ signature flared so hot that Lan Fan nearly flinched. She twisted her wrist, and caught Lan Fan’s hand, squeezing hard enough to make her bones flare white beneath the skin.

“You’re so naïve,” she said, but she didn’t let go of Lan Fan’s hand.

*

Lan Fan didn’t sleep that night. As soon as Lien Hua was gone (and it was nearly three in the morning before that happened, since now that the floodgates were opened, _everything_ came pouring out—everything that Lien Hua had been thinking in the past six months, it seemed, was up for discussion) she curled into bed and lay awake, staring at the wall. She should, she reasoned, go and tell the Commander and Suyin everything she’d learned. But if she was being watched—she doubted it, especially considering she couldn’t sense anyone, but there was always an if—running directly to her supervisor after Lien Hua crept back to her own room would be a dead giveaway.

Instead, she lay there, and thought. And thought. She ran over the evidence she could recall from late-night meetings with the Emperor and Commander Shan, overheard from bellowed arguments between Shan and Princess Chang. None of what Lien Hua had said—and she’d said a _lot_ , talked until she’d gone hoarse—actually went against anything Lan Fan already knew. In fact, a great deal of it settled quite neatly into the holes in their own informational patchwork. Things were settling in her head into a new pattern, and this one had the Firebrands and Shiloh Trener waiting at the end of it.

_The Dowager dies first._

It was insane. How on earth were the Fengs expecting to get away with murdering the Empress Dowager? Huian Yao was one of the best guarded people in the kingdom, certainly the most closely guarded woman—killing her would bring the whole of the Empire down on their heads. The bodyguard who’d accompanied Caterina della Babarigo, she had to be involved in whatever plan they were concocting. Maybe even Xinzhe’s hunt for an alkahestrist, Lan Fan realized, rolling over and dragging a notebook out from underneath the bed to start her report. The reason why he’d been missing from the Sevens Race, possibly the reason behind the Qarashi headscarf hidden away at the bottom of his trunk. All of it could be traced back to that. Flip the circumstance on its head and look at it sideways and suddenly everything slipped into place. _They don’t want the Emperor dead,_ she thought again, and shut her eyes, hiding her face in her pillow for one breath, two. _They don’t want the Emperor dead. I don’t have to kill them._

 _Too close_. She was getting too close to their targets. But they were human, now, unsettlingly, impossibly, indubitably human, and she wasn’t the Emperor’s Shadow, not anymore. She was Feiyan Ma, and Lien Hua and Xinzhe Feng had been there when she’d abandoned her name for good and ridden back to the palace in tears. Even if she’d been set to watch them, she should at least give Lien Hua enough of the benefit of the doubt to confirm whether or not her story was actually true. Then—then they would just have to see.

 _What reason does Lien Hua have to lie to me, though_? She flopped onto her back, the notebook pillowed on her chest. Because really, was there a reason? _Aside from her being an enemy of the Yao_ , Shan snapped in the back of her head, sounding irritable. But the Yao—the Yao could be their own enemies better than any other family could ever be. Honghui, Dingxiang, the Yao boys who had hassled her at her first courtly event, whispered _are horses the only thing you ride, Feiyan Ma_ —the Yao were as staid in tradition as any of the other Fifty Families, and Huian Yao was the most prominent of them all.

But that was traitorous to think, wasn’t it? She was Huo. Or she had been, anyway. She’d sworn her life and death and service to the Yao family, her blades and her world. She wasn’t blind, and never had been—there were parts of the Yao that could be as corrupt as any Liu or Cao—but she’d lost her arm for the chance to give the Yao a chance to survive. Master Ling had lost his body. Her grandfather had lost his life. Second-guessing that—maybe she was the traitor, and not the Fengs at all.

When Niu Lu came in at dawn, Lan Fan had her report finished. She passed it over to the maid with a quiet “Take this to the Commander, please,” and then went down to the stables to drag Changchang out of the paddock. The shooting party wasn’t scheduled until eleven; she could afford an hour or two of fighting with an angry warhorse to keep her good hand from shaking.

Lan Fan had vague memories of attending a shooting party with Master Ling and her grandfather before going to Amestris. Usually it was something reserved for the more highly-ranked princes, but occasionally (and usually only for the amusement of the Wife of the Moment) other princes were invited as well, to show off in front of the Retired Emperor. Master Ling had always been a decent shot, though there had been other imperial cousins who could easily best him. Those parties had always taken place on the palace grounds, in a training range, where the Emperor could sit shielded from the sun and not have to worry overly much about the journey through Xinjing to reach the outside world.

The Emperor had elected to hold this shooting party in the reedy field where Lan Fan had been shot. She wasn’t sure if that was meant to mean something, but the sight of the tree, the waist-high grass, made her skin prickle uncomfortably. It was a small party, and not one with too much fanfare; a pristine white tent had been set up just beyond the makeshift range, and the targets—some half-obscured by the thigh-high weeds, others set up to just peek into view—were   cacophonies of red and yellow silk. The noblewomen were clustered up a few feet apart from Caterina della Babarigo, flustered. She could make out Princess Chang, too, cloaked in pink, her hair done out in her regular braids. Alphonse Elric was staying back a little, not speaking to anyone, watching, considering. His _qi_ signature had sharpened since she’d last seen him, Lan Fan thought. It was much more clearly defined, now, simpler to pick out of the pack. And—she saw him lift his head, his face tipped towards her and Niu Lu—he’d grown better at sensing, too. He offered a little flare of a hello that she had to leave unreturned. Still, it tickled at something in her throat.

Lan Fan slipped off of Altan, landing lightly in the dirt. Behind her, Niu Lu (on a placid strawberry gelding) cocked her head in a question. “My lady?”

“I want to walk,” she said. The bright flares of color from the women’s gowns were making her eyes hurt. Lan Fan wound Altan’s reins around her automail hand. “Go ahead, if you like.”

“It wouldn’t be proper, my lady,” said Niu Lu, but her eyes were twinkling a little. Lan Fan frowned at her. She’d been informed in no uncertain terms when she’d tried to leave this morning that attending a party like this one without a maid to take care of her things was Simply Not Done, and she hadn’t been able to remember enough about the last shooting party she’d been to to remember if this was in any way true. Either way, it meant that she at least had one person at this party who wouldn’t want to stab her in the eyeball, and that could only be to the good.

She wondered if Shan had had a chance to read her notebook yet.

“Damn what’s proper,” said Lan Fan. “I’d like to walk.”

Altan shoved her head against the back of Lan Fan’s bad shoulder, and she had to dig her teeth into her lower lip to keep herself from yipping at the tug of sore muscle. By the time she recollected herself, Niu Lu had nodded, and prodded her gelding into something shambling and snail-paced that _vaguely_ resembled a trot. Al went to meet her. Lan Fan watched them for a moment, red and gold together, and then looked away, across the field, back towards Xinjing where the fires were brewing.

_If I had never come out here, I might still have a name to return to._

That was silly, of course. Huian Yao had a way of getting what she wanted. If she’d wanted Lan Fan Huo out of the way, then it would have happened regardless of whether or not Lan Fan and the Emperor had been attacked in a grassy field. There was always that niggling doubt, though, that maybe, maybe if she’d noticed, maybe if she hadn’t been so reckless, they could have regrouped. Maybe if she’d been paying more attention, they would have been able to stop Lan Fan Huo from ever being exiled. Maybe if she’d had enough advanced warning, she would have been able to prevent the Dowager Empress from ever trying anything like that. The cuts on her cheek stung a little, as if in memory.

 _The Empress has destroyed so many of us._ If Lien Hua had told the truth, Huian Yao had sent an assassin to have children murdered. She’d poisoned a fellow wife with lead, made her miscarry out of jealousy. She’d probably gone after other wives, after other women, after men who put themselves in her way. Not only that, but she’d stood by while innocents died, and done nothing. She’d done _nothing._ It was the Song-guo meeting all over again, Huian’s voice loud and sharp and crooning. _Insolent little bitch. Ridiculous half-breed whore._ Bao Zhang and the crow on his tabletop, Lien Hua and glassy eyes in the dark.

 _She’s not going to stop,_ Lan Fan realized. A greed for power ran deep in the Yao family, she’d known that since the beginning, but Huian Yao was something completely different. Greedy, and cruel, and frightened out of her mind.

 _You took my name from me._ She fisted a hand around some of the grass, snapped a knife out of her wrist sheath and slit through the stems. It was dry, and almost crackling to the touch. _You took my name, my life. I can’t take it back. You’ve destroyed it. You’ve destroyed my life and you’ve destroyed others the same way, all in your incessant need for more._

Suyin in the Ivy Maze, paging through cyphers. _You’d trip, and fall, and roll to your feet again. And when you did, you’d rip their throats out._

Bao Zhang, fierce-eyed and flaming. _As long as they get to play out their plots and keep their people in power, they don’t give a damn about those who are suffering beneath them. They mean nothing to the people in this palace._

Orange blossoms thick in her head and her nose, Lady Song and the Rosethorns watching her carefully. _Perhaps the best hope for idealism to survive is for idealists to flock together. Without support, we lose our faith._

 _I can’t ever take my name back_. She stowed the dagger away again, and twisted the strands of grass between her fingers. It was dry but strong, wiry, almost like threads. _You’ve taken that from me forever. But maybe—maybe I can take something just as dear from you._

“Lady Ma.”

It was the Emperor. Lan Fan didn’t jump. She looked down at the grass in her hand, and then up at him again, remembering: Feiyan Ma always looked the Emperor in the eye. Still, she dipped into a little nomad bow, and said, “Health and prosperity to you this morning, eminence.”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, after a moment. He’d switched out his typical court robes for something more suited to a morning spent shooting, tighter sleeves and fewer flowy things. She thought she spotted more Aerugan designs on the hem of his robes. For Caterina, maybe. In solidarity. “You’re late.”

“The sun’s not hit noon, yet, and Changchang needed hard riding this morning.” Something had put the mare in a mood, and not even Jian Zhang’s calming techniques—leader-making, run-outs, all the rest of it—had done much to help. In the end, she’d fallen off twice, but she’d managed to get Changchang to stop trying to pop her in the ribs with one heavy horse foot. “My apologies, majesty. There was no time to send a messenger.”

“It’s all right.” He watched Altan, and then crinkled his eyes at her. “This one isn’t like Changchang, is she?”

“You’ve met this one, eminence,” said Lan Fan. “She’s nothing like Changchang.”

“A Ma horse?”

“From my cousin’s herd. Or, at least, of their line.” She stroked one hand down Altan’s cheek, and then ran her thumb over the nock in the mare’s right ear. “This is the mark of the Ma, or, at least, of my family’s branch. And this—” she swiped Altan’s mane out of the way to show off the old scars, the white hairs where the burns had been covered with fur “—is my cousin’s breeding mark. Sarangerel is a talented horsewoman, eminence. I keep meaning to introduce her to Jian Zhang.”

“He would like that, I think.” The Emperor tipped his head in a move eerily reminiscent to Lien Hua. He looked less hungry than he had yesterday, in the hallway outside of Bao Zhang’s chambers. There was still a lean, hollow cast to him that she did not like. Lan Fan smoothed Altan’s mane down again, and swallowed. _Feiyan Ma. I am Feiyan Ma. I am the nomad girl who is being courted by the Emperor of Xing, and for spirits’ sake, for once I’m going to act like it._

“And are you well today, eminence?” she said, the words slipping free of her more easily than a sigh. The Emperor didn’t twitch, but his _qi_ signature flickered. Maybe with surprise. The sensation was there and gone too fast for her to be entirely certain. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth.

“As well as I can be, considering,” he said, and it knocked the breath out of her.

_Recovering, majesty. I was not myself._

_And you’re feeling better?_

_I am as well as I can be, considering._

“Oh.” She cleared her throat, and swallowed. Her throat scratched. “That’s—yes. Good.”

“Good,” the Emperor repeated, and stepped around to offer his arm to her again. She had to close her eyes and breathe, just for a moment, before passing Altan’s reins to her flesh hand, and slipping her automail one into the crook of his elbow. _Claimed and claiming._ His _qi_ seemed to dance just beneath the skin, leather and lemongrass, sharp as a tack. Over near the archery range, Alphonse lifted his head to look at them, and just as quickly put it back down again to continue his talk with Niu Lu. The grass twined between her flesh fingers, biting a little. Lan Fan pushed it into the pocket of her robes.

“Your Feng friend doesn’t seem to be overly friendly,” said the Emperor, as they began their slow march towards the rest of the gathering. “Especially for someone who was trying so desperately to get my attention when the Gathering began.”

“Dong Mao is—” she grappled for a moment, and then just gave up. “Dong Mao is an ass.”

The Emperor snorted. “His fiancée is lovely. I had the chance to speak with her, a little, before the hordes arrived. She said you’ve been trying to teach her Xingese.”

“I’m not much of a teacher. Lien Hua is doing much better at that.”

“Her translator doesn’t seem to be of much help.”

Lan Fan picked out the dark figure of Lotus, standing a few feet behind Caterina, hands behind her back. Al had drifted from Niu Lu to the Aerugan, and she thought that that might be the best decision he’d made all day. “Her translator follows orders quite well, I believe.”

“How unexpectedly catty.”

“I didn’t sleep last night,” she said. “You’ll have to pardon my backhanded compliments.”

His eyes crinkled again. Her automail hand was getting warmer with each passing moment. “You didn’t sleep?” 

“There was a pheasant in the garden outside my window, and it was…very talkative.”

There was another leap from his _qi_ signature, even more quickly stifled. Something close to triumph was burning in his face. “I see.”

“There’s a lot to think about,” she said, and then they’d arrived. Lan Fan disengaged from the Emperor’s arm before any murderous intent registered in her senses (though she wouldn’t be surprised, she thought, sighing, if that happened before the day was out) and handed Altan off to one of the footmen milling around. Her short bow itched against her back.

“My lady Ma,” said Al in a loud voice, and a few people, including Princess Chang, swiveled around to look at her. Color flushed up into her cheeks again. Caterina sent half-a-glance at Dong Mao (who, along with Lotus, was ignoring Lan Fan spectacularly) before offering a tentative smile. “It’s good to see you doing better. The last time we met you were much less upright.”

“That,” said Lan Fan, “sounds awful. I was in my sickbed, don’t tease about that.”

Al’s eyes widened a little. Still, he grinned. “Well, it’s not my fault you managed to go and get yourself shot.”

“And now I’m the one holding a bow, thanks to your teacher, so I suppose that makes the whole thing come out even.” She eyed him. “You’re not going to shoot?”

“I don’t like weapons,” said Al. His eyes darted to Princess Chang for a moment. “Guns, knives, bows, swords. They’re all pretty in their own way, but they’re meant to kill. I’m an alchemist, not a soldier. I’d rather not join in, even if it is only for sport.”

“Your loss,” said Dong Mao, snapping into the conversation with about as much ceremony as a dead fish. Caterina looked from Lan Fan to Al to Dong Mao and back again, trying desperately to keep track. “The wind is perfect for it.”

Lan Fan cleared her throat. “Dong Mao.”

“Feiyan,” said Dong Mao. His voice was wooden. “You’ve been looking after my fiancée, or so my sister tells me.”

 _Looking after._ She considered that, for a moment. “I spend time with her. Caterina—” Caterina’s head lifted a little, her pretty eyes flaring wide “—is a good companion.”

“She can’t even speak Xingese. How do you _spend time_ with someone who doesn’t even speak your language?”

“Xingese isn’t my language either,” said Lan Fan, without even really breathing. “So together, we make do.”

Dong Mao looked at her for a moment longer. Then his lip curled in disgust. “Ten percent, Ma.”

“As you like.”

He scoffed, and stalked away before anyone else could say anything. Al lifted his eyebrows.

“Ten percent?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Lan Fan was more interested in Caterina. She might not have been able to track the phrases—though most of the words were well within her new range of vocabulary—but Dong Mao’s tone had been easy enough to understand. Caterina bit her lip hard enough for it to go white, her eyes glassy. Lan Fan glanced at Al, and then, hesitantly, touched her flesh fingers to Caterina’s shoulder. She flinched a little, and blinked at Lan Fan with big wet eyes. What on earth was she supposed to say? _I’m so sorry that your fiancé is a cruel selfish bastard?_ She wasn’t entirely certain that was even true.

No, she thought, watching Dong Mao’s retreating back. No, she was pretty sure it was true. She just wasn’t sure she could say that without upsetting Caterina more.

“Signorina,” said Al quietly. Caterina looked away from Lan Fan. “You were telling me about Aerugo. Like I said, I’ve never been. I really want to go, though. There are some really interesting alchemical schools that I want to take a look at before I go back to Amestris.”

Caterina wet her lips. She swallowed. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about alchemy,” she said, in low Amestrian. Lan Fan schooled her face into silence. “I can’t be of much help to you.”

“A little help is much better than no help at all.” Al darted a look at Lan Fan. “Maybe Lady Ma could do us a favor and explain about the shooting party afterwards? I’m not really suited to this stuff, like I said.”

“Of course,” said Lan Fan, and wondered if she could get away jabbing Dong Mao in the gut with her metal fist. “It would be a pleasure.”  

The Lus and Zhaos who had been going through their rounds—five bolts each, each drawn excruciatingly slowly, the long bows angled precisely so—returned about ten minutes later, talking quietly amongst themselves. Mingming, Xinzhe’s fiancée, wasn’t among them. Which was only for the best, really—that would just have made things even more complicated than they already were. The recurve bow that she’d found in her trunk of supplies (thank you, Suyin) was much different than these elegant ebony things, unmarked and shining as if they were made of lacquer. Lan Fan’s recurve was scratched at both ends, the wood twisted a little in the middle where she was supposed to grasp it. Thankfully, she wouldn’t be drawing with her automail arm. She was fairly certain she’d snap the string if she tried that.

Caterina pressed her lips together, and then whispered, “The bow. Different?”

Lan Fan looked down at her. The blood had finally faded out of her cheeks, though her eyes were still a little red. She’d stopped picking at the hem of her sleeve, thankfully. Her Aerugan gown, dark and high-waisted and clinging, stood out in the grass. “Yes, it’s different.” She groped for the Aerugan word, came up empty. Lan Fan glanced at Al, and then back at Caterina. “Um. Theirs are—not toys, exactly, but—toys. This is a weapon.”

“ _Wu qi_ ,” repeated Caterina solemnly. “Weapon.”

“A tool,” Lan Fan said. She’d made sure Caterina knew the word for tool, at least. “To kill people with. That—” she gestured towards the long glossy bows “—is a toy. Or something like one.”

“A toy?” One of the Lu girls—she had two silver hoops through one earlobe, three in the other—drew herself up to her full height, and sniffed. “That’s an interesting sentiment, considering that little stick of yours is barely big enough for a child. What on earth are you telling her?”

Tone, not words. Caterina flinched a little, and drew back. Lan Fan shifted her grip on the bow—there was a little carving just where the pad of her forefinger would be, if it hadn’t been her automail arm, something in the shape of a horse—and sighed. She was too tired for this. She’d talked too much to Lien Hua, and she’d spent too much time thinking, and really, when were people going to leave off bothering her for something that wasn’t any of their business anyway? “That bow was designed for recreational usage. It doesn’t have the draw to pierce armor. Maybe if it was a little heavier, it could do something, but it’s not meant for battle. You’re aiming at targets, not men. It’s meant for a game of accuracy, not for war. So, a toy. Not a weapon.” She paused. “I did not mean to offend.”

The Emperor slowed in his collection of his bolts for the next round. She thought his ears might be pricked. The Lu girl went pink around her collar, and stood up even straighter. She’d been one of the girls at the Sevens Race, Lan Fan remembered suddenly. One of the girls always buzzing around the Feng triplets. She’d had no idea this one had a lineage good enough to pass Huian Yao’s test of blood.

“ _You_ might have come from a place where—where weapons are given to children instead of toys, but _I_ did not. This—” she raised the bow “—was crafted for more elegant, well-bred pursuits.”

Al’s mouth tightened. He crossed his arms over his chest, smiling in a way that could give the Emperor’s court look a run for its money. “Is war only something that the poor do, then?”

“Well, obviously not,” said the Lu girl, sounding like she’d just stepped into a puddle that was actually a lake. “But—looking for a fight, constantly, that’s not civilized.”

“There’s a difference between looking for a fight and being ready to end one if it begins,” said Lan Fan. Her ears were ringing oddly. _Can’t they all just stop?_ “Like I said. I meant no offense by calling your bow a toy. If I misspoke, I apologize. I don’t think the two are comparable, that was all I meant to say.”

The Lu girl stood there quivering for a moment, her eyes jumping from Caterina to Al to Lan Fan and finally to the Emperor. She lowered her bow, letting it rest sideways across her hips. “If your bow is so superior, why don’t you show us? You brought it to be used, after all.”

Lan Fan looked down at her recurve. The quiver on her back clattered a little when she shifted her weight, from one foot to the other. “If you like. And if his eminence does not mind.”

“I’d rather like to see this, I think,” said the Emperor, with that damn _I’m looking forward to this_ expression. Lan Fan bit the inside of her cheek so she didn’t scowl. “If you would, Lady Ma, Lady Lu.”

The Lu girl turned bright red. “Me?”

“A comparison,” said Princess Chang. She’d stepped up beside Al, her lips turned up into a dazzlingly fake sweet smile. “That would be best, don’t you think?”

The Lu girl opened her mouth, but one of her companions—sister, maybe, or cousin—stepped hard on her foot. She squeaked. Then she said, “Of course, your highness.”

“Well, then.” Lan Fan rolled her neck, and then flexed her flesh wrist. “I’ll be right back, then.”

Al blinked. “Where are you going?”

“To get my horse,” Lan Fan called back over her shoulder. “This bow is crafted for horse-based combat. If you want to see it used properly, I need to be riding.”

She thought that the Lu girl went a bit pale at that, but when she turned around to look, the woman had stomped over to collect more bolts from her decorative quiver.    

It had been a very long time since she’d had to show off. That was technically what she was doing, she supposed, as she undid Altan’s reins from the makeshift post that had been set up. (She was fairly certain that the footmen were just waiting for the thing to fall down; they hovered a great deal more than necessary and flinched when she tugged too hard at the rope.) She had absolute faith that she could manage this—she hadn’t practiced with a bow in a while, but she had naturally good aim, and besides, she trusted Altan to do more than half the work—but it just felt…strange. Like a waste of time, almost. Everything about this was nothing but pettiness. There were so many better things to be arguing about than the make and purpose of a bow. _If the Fires of God are really the ones behind it all, then—_ no. She wasn’t Feiyan Ma, spy, right now. She was Feiyan Ma, irritable woman of the steppes.

Lan Fan swung up onto Altan again, nudging the mare with her knees—she’d given up on saddles almost entirely, now that Changchang was getting better—and urging her forward with one well-placed prod to the ribs.

The Lu girl (Lan Fan didn’t know her name, and felt slightly bad for it) had already set herself up at the range, her quiver hanging in the folds of her skirt. Lan Fan hadn’t seen a waist quiver in a long time, not since that long ago shooting party with the Retired Emperor. She thought they’d been phased out of the army for the most part and made solely the domain of the noble sector. The bows used by the military— _those_ were longbows, made for war, the heaviest draw that Lan Fan had ever attempted. The Lu girl looked up at Lan Fan (Altan wasn’t a very large horse, stocky and shaggy like every animal on the steppes, but the Lu Girl was short enough to make her seem enormous) and pressed her lips tight together. “Turn by turn?”

“All at once, I think,” said Lan Fan.

“Winner is the one with the most bullseyes,” said Princess Chang. Behind her, Al was pressing his fingers to his lips, as if he was trying to hide a smile. He wasn’t succeeding very well. “If you’re both ready.”

Lan Fan pushed her knee into Altan’s ribs, swerving her until she was parallel to the Lu.

The Lu girl went a bit green around the gills, but she nodded once. She bowed first to Dong Mao, then to Princess Chang (Dong Mao’s mouth tightened) and then finally to the Emperor who had stationed himself a few feet off from the range, hands folded in front of him, watching quietly. She didn’t give Lan Fan a second glance.

She was going to fumble it. Lan Fan could tell before she even nocked the first arrow, as she settled the point of the bow just above her knee, breathed in and out, and swiveled it around to the correct position. It wasn’t that this girl was a bad archer—she was decent, from what Lan Fan had observed while listening to Al and Caterina talk about Aerugan politics—it was that she was too nervous, too irritated, and too _much_ to be able to pull it off without making a mistake. The first arrow hit two fingers to the right of the bullseye—Dong Mao chuffed between his teeth—but the second went wide, missing the mark and almost missing the target entirely. It caught on the very edge of the silk, and clung there, half-falling free. The Lu girl flushed red all the way up her throat. Lan Fan’s stomach squeezed uncomfortably small. _I don’t want to humiliate her._ She glared at Princess Chang, or tried to, but Princess Chang had snapped a pinkish-white fan open and was using it to hide what she was whispering to Alphonse. She wasn’t paying enough attention to care.

The last arrow touched home—in one of the inner rings, still not quite a bullseye—and the Lu girl lowered her bow in the proper rhythm, finally settling with her feet pressed together, her back ramrod straight. Lan Fan shifted Altan around for a moment, knotting up the reins over her withers. The Lu girl glared at her, as if she was daring Lan Fan to say something.

“You did better before,” Lan Fan said. “I was watching.”

“Like I care if you were,” the Lu girl snapped, and stalked off to put her things down. So much for trying to be nice. Lan Fan finished the knot, and let the reins go. Altan did a little dance in the dirt, hooves scuffing around the high grasses. She looked to the Emperor. “May I?”

He waved a hand. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“You might want to move, then,” Lan Fan said, and squeezed her legs hard around Altan’s ribs.

She took the mare in a wide circle, first. Altan was too excited; her ears were pricked, her head was up, and she kept veering right, back towards the crimson targets. In the grasses, everything and everyone was a flare of color, a flicker of light. The Emperor in green and gold, Mei Chang’s delicate pink and Alphonse’s blue, Dong Mao and the noblewomen in all their different colors. Even Caterina’s dark gown was a splash out of the corner of her eye as Lan Fan pressed in with her left knee, and Altan skidded around into a hairpin turn that made her eyes water. It was a blessing not to have to fight for every command, to press in and _know_ that the horse would understand, but riding a horse other than Changchang—it still felt odd.

She put the first arrow through the back of the target and into the bullseye, passing it so fast that it was nothing more than a whirl of color slapping at her leg. The second and third struck home on her second pass, within a breath of each other. She kept at the same range as the Lu girl, didn’t creep any closer in case someone accused her of cheating. Altan nearly skidded when she brought her around for the fourth target, and snorted so loudly that Lan Fan started to laugh; it was exactly the sort of _how dare you do that to me_ noise that a cat would make if you knocked it over with the end of a broom.

The last target was slightly apart from the others. She nipped her heel into Altan’s right side, brought her around in a wide circle. Al had surged away from the rest of the group, seizing a handful of grass and cutting it free, clapping it together between his hands. When it came away, the grass had changed into a thin hoop. He cupped one hand to his mouth. “Lady Ma!”

She raised her bow in acknowledgment, something bubbling in her chest like champagne. She was actually having _fun_. She hadn’t done something like this in forever. She’d forgotten how much it could help, just forgetting things for a while. Lan Fan shifted Altan around (the mare hadn’t dropped below a gallop yet, and it was making her palms sweat in the most wonderful way) and made straight for Al. He gestured once, twice, three times with the hoop, and when her arrow was nocked to the string, he let fly. The bolt flew straight through the hoop and into the final bullseye, and on the other side, Caterina della Babarigo, laughing harder than Lan Fan had ever seen her do, caught the hoop with both hands.

It took a minute to bring Altan back down to a canter, and then to a trot. She finally pulled the mare to a stop between Alphonse and Caterina, bending sideways to take the hoop away from her. It wasn’t changed, fundamentally—the thing still felt like grass—but it was fused together in a way that made her think of hardened grass mats. When she looked at Al, her eyebrows raised, he shrugged, flushed and grinning.

“Just—aged it a little bit. It worked fine.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re—that was ridiculous.”

“But you did it,” Alphonse said, and she couldn’t quite find it in her to argue with him about it. She bent down to Caterina again, pressing the hoop back into her hands. Caterina’s fingernails were tattered, bitten down to the quick, but she was beaming so bright it was impossible not to beam right back at her.

“I know you can’t understand me,” said Caterina in very quick Aerugan; Lan Fan nipped hard at the inside of her cheek, “but the last time I saw something like that was at one of the weapons dances in Prostello and it was wonderful, and I want to ask—can you ask her for me, Signore, is that something all plainriders can do, or is that—”

“My Aerugan isn’t that fast,” said Al, but he was laughing. “Slow—I’ll ask her, just slow down, just for a minute—”

“I have to walk Altan,” Lan Fan said over the tangle of their voices, “move before she steps on you, please—”

The Lu girl was watching her. When Lan Fan tried to meet her gaze, she looked away very fast, hands clenched into fists by her sides. Her eyes were red, and her _qi_ —untrained, unleashed—was flaring with something that ached like a bruise. Lan Fan’s smile faded a bit. Beyond the Lu girl, though, there was Niu Lu, gleaming like a shard of the moon, and beyond her, there was the Emperor, smiling, clapping his hands once, twice, three times before tucking them away behind his back again, where she couldn’t read them.  

On the outskirts, Dong Mao and Lotus exchanged a careful look, and stayed quiet.

*

Xiaoqing kept her eyes low and her hands folded as she edged around the corner of the alley, the firebrand medallion hanging bold and shiny against her chest. It had been like she’d fallen into a hole, digging her medallion out from the bottom of the drawer and putting it back on. Like she’d taken a step on a ladder or a staircase, and the step had fractured under her foot to let her fall, her stomach dropping like dead weight and her ears ringing with the aftershocks. The thing was a shackle around her throat, gagging her, digging into her voicebox, and if she’d ever doubted her decision to take the thing off before, she certainly didn’t now.

She could remember the touch of Shiloh Trener’s hands as he’d lifted her medallion from the mud, settled it back into her hand and closed her fingers around it. She’d still had the taint of leprosy on her, the feel of her mother’s bandages. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d given her the necklace back, then he’d walked away, and it had left her feeling hollowed out inside. _Your god took my mother away,_ she’d wanted to scream, but she hadn’t been able to muster up the words.

 _Leto will provide for us, darling,_ her mother had said, in the months and weeks and days before she’d died. _Leto always provides for us. Trust in His light._

But Leto hadn’t provided, and Trener had broken his promises, and now she was slogging through the mud and muck of Xuqu hunting for the same kind of men who’d destroyed her faith and killed her father’s hope. Peizhi was trotting along a few yards behind her, careful to keep his head down. 

 _Where can I find the Fires of God?_ It wasn’t too difficult. Hong’s Tavern was too well-known, at least, for the sort of meetings that Feiyan Ma might be interested in. (Her mind was racing. _Who did they attack that she knows? Did they attack her too? Peizhi said something about her being injured, was that what happened? Why does she want to_ —) But there were other places in the city that you could find if you looked hard enough. Her father might not be one of the Firebrands, not anymore—he never had been, really—but half their regulars were firestarters. She’d spent the past few years surrounded by them, by their talk in the dead of night while she’d bussed tables and herded her foundlings into the corner, kept Fu from stealing scraps off the countertop. She knew the code words and the hidey-holes as well as any of them. Even if she hadn’t, they weren’t all that difficult to find, once you caught the trick.

There would always be a piece of graffiti in the immediate area. Sometimes within a block radius, sometimes only within a few houses. It was always a small thing, but it was always a vivid red, and someone would come by to touch it up or repaint it every few days just to make sure people could keep finding it. It wasn’t ever a Xingese character, either. They were little pictures, a candle in some places, a bonfire the next, sometimes even just a tiny flame creeping out of the broken bottles and rotting grass at the base of a building, but when you found them, you would know that there was a safehouse nearby. _Add fire to fire and you increase its deadliness_ , she thought, and tapped two fingers to the small painting of a lantern on the side of a spice stall before turning down that street. Peizhi heckled the merchant for a minute or two before ducking after her.

The place was more of a hovel than an inn, a four-storied building that was so rickety and angular that it looked ready to collapse into a pile of sticks. Someone had painted the word _Yushan’s_ onto a makeshift sign propped up beside the door. There was a tiny candle painted in white at the base of it, and the sound of voices echoed from inside. Xiaoqing shifted the medallion a little, so it wasn’t quite so obvious against the cloth of her dress, and drew a breath before slipping inside.

It was tidier on the inside, at least. The kitchen (and this was the professional side of her, more than anything) wasn’t quite as well tended as it could have been, considering how it kept expelling smoke like some kind of fire-breathing dragon, but the floor was clean, and the tables and chairs were serviceable. The man behind the counter came to a sudden stop when he saw her standing just beyond the doorway, a bag of what looked like rice hanging heavy on his shoulder. His eyes darted from her veil and headscarf to her covered feet, and his mouth twisted. “I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“Fires keep you, brother,” she said. It tasted like puke on her tongue. “May the Sun God provide.”

The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. He shifted the bag of rice on his shoulder. Then he said, “Didn’t know towelheads were turning to the sun.”

She could taste blood in her mouth. Xiaoqing wondered if he could see the loathing in her eyes when she forced her face into a smile, made her eyes crinkle a little. “More and more every day, brother. Still not enough.”

“Never enough.” He dumped the rice bag onto the counter. In the corner, two women spoke in low voices. She couldn’t make out the language from this distance. “What are you here for? Bit early for a drink. Didn’t think you folks went in for that sort of thing.”

“I was actually hoping to talk to someone.” She swallowed a little. “I—it’s been a very long time since I’ve had the chance to talk to other brothers and sisters in flame. My father—he’s a heretic. He doesn’t believe in the Sun God’s light, and for the past few years, it’s been—very difficult for me to find anyone else of the faith. I just—I saw the markings, on your sign, and I thought there might be someone I could talk to.”

The more she spoke, the more disgusted the innkeeper looked. By the end of it, she was close to tears—of revulsion, not of actual sadness, though the difference was negligible to the innkeep—and he had reared so far back from her it was like he was skirting a pile of acid. In the corner, the women had fallen silent. One of them, little more than a girl, hooked her frizzing hair behind her ears, watching with eyes that glinted. Xiaoqing didn’t quite meet her gaze.

“Not my business what you do,” said the innkeeper, “but if you disturb any paying customers I’ll rip that damn veil of yours off and throw you out on your backside.”

She made herself smile again. “Of course. I don’t—I never meant to bother anyone.”

“Psh,” said the innkeeper, and stalked off into the kitchen again. Xiaoqing scrubbed her sweaty palms on her skirt, and wondered how obvious she was being. If there _was_ something going on with the Fires of God in Xinjing, they had to be on the lookout, didn’t they? And if they _had_ tried to kill someone that Feiyan Ma knew, then they would be searching for infiltrators too, wouldn’t they?

_Stay outside, Peizhi. Stay outside._

She was halfway to an empty table set back from the door, out of the way of the foot traffic, when the girl with the frizzing, multicolored hair cleared her throat. There was a medallion around her neck, glinting silver. “Fires keep you, sister.”

“Oh,” said Xiaoqing. She clenched her hands tight in her pockets. “Fires bless you.”

“I heard what you said.” The girl looked to her companion—a blonde _laowai_ , looking pale even for a white woman, and Xiaoqing had to fight the automatic urge to cut and run at the sight of yellow hair and a Firebrand medallion, had to dig her nails into her palms to stand her ground—and then pushed the third chair away from the table with her foot. There was something odd about her mouth, about her eyes, but Xiaoqing couldn’t quite make it out. “Not often you see ana-Qarashi daughters outside of New Haven.”

Xiaoqing settled carefully in the chair, keeping her eyes cast down. “My—my father was not one of the true belief. He took me away when I was young. I’ve kept the faith since.”

“And now you’re looking for your own kind,” said the girl. She smiled, and Xiaoqing realized that her teeth had been lengthened, sharpened. They looked almost like a cat’s. “Or so you say.”

“Mao,” said the blonde woman, in accented Xingese. Mao left her teeth bared, snapping them a little. It seemed almost playful. Her pupils were long slits. Xiaoqing tried her damnedest not to flinch. “Stop it.”

“Come on. You can smell the lies on her a mile off.” Mao leaned in. “If you were raised in New Haven, tell me, how do you get in there?”

“I don’t know.” She wet her lips. _Tell lies with truth, jie-jie,_ Peizhi had said, as she’d wound her red scarf into place. _Best that way._ “I—when we came to the Haven, I was too young to remember much of it, and when we left—they drugged us, my father and I. I remember falling asleep in my bed, and waking up in a forest clearing in Feng-guo. Not anything in between.”

Mao snapped her teeth again. Xiaoqing _did not stare_. “Fine,” she said, eventually. “Say you _did_ come from New Haven. If it was years ago, why not track us down sooner?”

“I told you. My father doesn’t believe. It was hard enough to keep my prayers hidden from him. If I had gone out to find other daughters or sons, then he’d have killed me.” She drew a breath. “Fire coin is good enough for him, but not a fire daughter. I talked to some of the guests at our inn, but it—it wasn’t enough. So now that I’m older, I thought it was time for me to find people I could…talk to.”

The blonde woman didn’t look up from her slate. “Now that you’re older?” she said. “Or now that you’re less afraid?”

Peizhi flopping back against Feiyan Ma, the nomad woman steering Changchang out of the plaza. Xiaoqing swallowed again, trying to work moisture back into her mouth. “Both, I suppose.”

The blonde shifted her grip against the slate, and winced. Her tangzhuang had slipped just enough to show the gleam of bandages against her pale skin. Xiaoqing glanced at Mao the toothy woman again (she’d lost interest, apparently; that, or she was playing coy, like any cat would) and then laid her hand flat on the table, palm up. “I don’t—only I have a little healing training. Is your shoulder all right?”

The blonde woman looked up, and Xiaoqing froze. There was a collar around her throat, but that wasn’t really what caught her attention. It was the eyes—they weren’t blue, like she was expecting, or golden green like Ah-Li’s, but brown, like one of the Xingese, or one of the Qarashi. The combination was like earth and sunlight, and it made something squeeze tight in her throat. Xiaoqing drew her hand back, slowly, and looked away. “Or—I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me.”

“You’re an alkahestrist?” said the woman in the Aerugan slave collar. Mao bristled a little, and stilled when the blonde woman raised her hand in warning. “You can heal?”

“I can do some things. I’m not officially trained. I’m teaching myself, mostly. But I know the arrays, and I’m learning.” _And a foreign alchemist is going to start teaching me more._ Xiaoqing kept her eyes on the table. “I just—I want to help people, if I can. That’s all.”

The blonde woman was quiet for a time, watching her. Xiaoqing could feel her gaze burning against her scalp. When she shifted back in her seat, the little piece of chain still attached to the collar at her neck clicked, metal on metal. “I will keep that in mind.”

She looked up through her lashes, in spite of herself. The blonde woman was still staring. So was Mao. Xiaoqing barely heard it when the door opened, and boots landed hard on the wooden floor. She _definitely_ heard whoever it was clear their throat, though. It was very loud. She nearly shot out of her chair. A man with a braid over one shoulder stood just behind the table, his eyebrows raised. An old scar lingered over his mouth. Xiaoqing flushed again, and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is this—did I take your seat?”

“No,” said the man. He drew it out, slowly. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Huli,” said Mao. “Meet a sister. Sister, Huli.”

More firebrands, then. Xiaoqing stood, and backed away from the table. “Fires bless you, sir. My name is Xiaoqing.”

“Fires keep you, Sister Xiaoqing,” said Huli, automatically. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t,” said Xiaoqing, but her heart was pounding anyway. “I just—is it all right if I come back here? I don’t have much time before my father notices I’m gone, but—”

Huli’s eyes dipped to the medallion at her throat, and then lifted back to her face. “All brothers and sisters are welcome here.” He spoke oddly, as if he were reciting something. “Flames guard you, sister.”

“Flames guide you, brother,” she said, and kept herself at a slow walk until she was out the door. Then she broke into a run, ignoring Peizhi’s startled squawk. She didn’t stop until she could no longer breathe.

 _Not again,_ she thought, and gagged, leaning hard against the wall of an old building. _No, no, no. Not again._   

*

The only word she could think of to describe the day of the Closing Ceremony was _lurid._

The Opening had been fireworks, flashes of gold and elegance and the sudden quicksilver flare of the Emperor’s daring. Today, though—she walked into the Gathering Hall, and nearly gagged from the cacophony of scents. Incense that hadn’t been used since the Dawn Emperor had ascended was burning bright. _So much for Niu Lu’s makeup._ Her eyes were running already, and her nose was going to swell up within fifteen minutes. Next to her, Suyin lifted an eyebrow.

“You look ill.”

“Allergies,” said Lan Fan. She sniffed. Suyin’s lips parted into a little _O_ of comprehension, and she hooked her hand through Lan Fan’s metal elbow. “I’ll breathe through my mouth. Where’s the Commander?”

“Meeting with the Emperor.” Suyin nudged her elbow into Lan Fan’s side. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it wasn’t, but it was still that odd little offering of companionship that she hadn’t shown before the Gathering. It made Lan Fan nervous. _You’re my cover, not my cousin._

 _All the plainriders are sisters under the skin_ , Suyin had said, her hand tight around Lan Fan’s wrist. Lan Fan shut her eyes, let her lips part, thinking, _I am Huo._ But she wasn’t, anymore. Her name was gone. Lan Fan Huo was banished. The only thing left behind was her.

_What am I now?_

“Is there something that could help?” Suyin asked, and Lan Fan snapped back to reality. She looked a bit worried. “If you can’t breathe—”

“I’ll be all right.” In about ten minutes she was going to start sounding like she had a bad headcold, but she would be all right. Probably. “How are you?”

Suyin blinked. “Why do you ask?”

 _Because it’s polite?_ Lan Fan nearly said. She held it back by the skin of her teeth. “We haven’t…spoken. In a few days.”

Suyin actually flushed, pink just barely staining the bones in her cheeks. It was like watching a shark eat grass. When she smiled, it was a little shy. “I’m all right. I visited an alkahestrist yesterday. She said that everything was going well.”

Generally the Saatii didn’t go to alkahestrists for pregnancy, she was fairly sure, but it seemed like something Shan would insist on. Lan Fan blinked slowly. “Do you know what it is?”

“No. It’s too early. But—” Suyin blushed pinker, and this was _insane_ , it was as if some kind of alien had attached itself to Lan Fan’s arm in place of Suyin Yao “—she said she thought that the _qi_ had more yin energies than yang. Or something like that. I don’t know what she meant, really, but either way she thought it could be a girl.”

A girl. A smile tugged at the edges of Lan Fan’s mouth. “Has Shan bothered you about names?”

“He’s tried,” said Suyin grumpily, and nudged herself closer again. “I told him no. The baby names itself, not the other way around.”

“Flatlanders,” said Lan Fan in the Ma dialect, and Suyin tilted her head back and let out a wild, ululating whoop that had the entirety of the crowd turning to stare at them. Lan Fan stared back, and as one, they dropped their eyes. When Suyin came down from the echo, she squeezed Lan Fan’s metal wrist.

“You seem well. Better than you were.”

Lan Fan shrugged a little.

“Don’t do that,” said Suyin, and cocked her head. “Even compared to a few days ago, you seem much improved. You’ve been happier since the archery party. Did something good happen?”

“Not particularly.” She didn’t count the long nights spent pouring over every detail of Lien Hua’s story, the desperate scrambling for confirmation, the reformation of their plans. _If the Fengs aren’t the enemy, who is?_ Though that question, at least, had an easy answer. Or two. “I’m just—I’ve been thinking a lot.”

“Oh?”

She watched Suyin out of the corner of her eye for a moment, considering. She’d been there, Suyin. Lan Fan had been wrecked after the banishment, and she’d been there when Lien Hua had asked her to be. She probably would have been there even without Lien Hua herding everyone into one room. She’d stayed the whole night, and she’d been cautious and careful ever since. Lan Fan glanced up at the empty dais, and bent into Suyin, shifting close to her ear.

“About things that can—change. I suppose.”

Suyin slanted a look at her. “Or be transformed?”

“Maybe.”

She frowned a little, slowing in the crowd. The Great Drum began to sing out, vibrating into Lan Fan’s ribcage. _The last day of the Gathering._ And the day after tomorrow, they would pack up the court and shift the whole thing to Pubuchuan and its waterfalls for the winter season. “This is about what the Songs and Minister Zhang were talking about, isn’t it.”

“I haven’t decided,” said Lan Fan. She needed to by the end of this ceremony, but she still hadn’t quite made up her mind. “I was just—thinking about things.”

“About lost things?”

That ached somewhere deep under her sternum. “For the most part. I was thinking about the Shadow, mostly. And—and what brought that about.”

Suyin clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Do you mind if I make an observation?”

Lan Fan shook her head. She squeezed her fingers into the fabric of her deel. When Suyin still didn’t say anything, she said, “Go ahead.”

“What happened to the Shadow was awful,” said Suyin, flatly. “It was—it was unjust, and unkind, and unnecessary. It can’t be reversed, and it can’t be forgotten. The kind of scar that leaves behind _shouldn’t_ be forgotten. But—” and she shifted her hand against Lan Fan’s arm, carefully “—I also think that the Shadow has an opportunity, now.”

Lan Fan stilled. She swallowed. “What do you mean?” she said, and her voice was hoarse and cracking.

“You said it yourself,” said Suyin. “Things that can change, or be transformed. The Shadow has a new life outside of Xing, now. She can either give it up, or she can embrace it. Become someone new. Make herself into something different. _Do_ something different. Achieve something she couldn’t have otherwise.” She took a breath. “It’ll be hard for her, because—living like that, it’s all she’s ever known, really. But this—this is something new. And she can learn again. I think she’s smart enough to manage that.”

Incense wafted right into her face. It was the only reason for her eyes to be burning so hot, for her throat to be so tight. Lan Fan coughed a few times, sniffling, and Suyin called Niu Lu over, speaking too quietly for Lan Fan to hear before pressing a square of silk into her hand. “Use that,” she said. “Cover your nose and mouth. Niu Lu will be back with something to help.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“If you die of an allergic reaction while kneeling before the Emperor, I’m not going to be the one to burn your body on the steppes.”

Lan Fan choked. It could have been a laugh. She kept the piece of silk folded over her nose and mouth, trying not to breathe too deeply. Suyin reached out with both hands, and scuffed them over Lan Fan’s arms, like she was trying to get the blood flowing. It was silly—there were too many people in the Gathering Hall for her to do anything other than sweat buckets, and besides, one of her arms just didn’t work that way—but for some reason, she felt better nonetheless.

“The Shadow has choices now,” said Suyin. “Choices are terrifying. She’ll make good choices and bad ones, go down the wrong path sometimes. But now she has paths to choose from, instead of only following one. And that, I think, could lead to something wonderful.”

“For someone new,” Lan Fan said through the silk. Suyin shook her head.

“For _her_. It doesn’t matter who she is, under the mask. All it means is that she gets to finally make a choice.”

 _That’s not who I am._ She wanted to scream. _I don’t get the choice._ But Lan Fan Huo was dead. If there was a choice, it would be Feiyan Ma to make it, not Lan Fan Huo. And she’d told herself she wasn’t going to think about this, that she was just going to push on, but Suyin was looking at her with an expression that was almost like hope, and it was impossible not to listen to that. Lan Fan bit her tongue rather than snap.

“I suppose it does,” she said, finally.

Suyin wrapped her hand tight around Lan Fan’s metal wrist.

The Emperor arrived. So did the Dowager Empress. Lan Fan kept her eyes averted, ignoring the stinging in her cheek as they settled in their seats. She was thinking too hard. _All it means is that she finally gets to make a choice_ , and Lan Fan didn’t _make_ choices, not like that. She choose what to eat and what to wear and where to go, but her life had been structured for as long as she could remember, and without that she could barely even take a breath. _Now she has paths to choose from, instead of only following one._ There were things she could do, and not do. There were people she could speak to, or ignore. There were rumors and names and stories that she could build, all on her own, now.

 _You are a guardian,_ her grandfather had said. _You will protect him for as long as you are alive._ And she would, always. The Emperor was her duty, and she would never shirk that. But—but that wasn’t all she had to be. The floor was falling apart beneath her feet. Suyin drew her back up out of her bow, absently, and left her hand resting on Lan Fan’s elbow. _That’s not all I have to be._

Everything in her revolted. It was like an earthquake she’d seen as a child, maybe ten, maybe eleven, where the earth itself had snapped out like someone flicking a sheet. She almost vomited onto her shoes. She didn’t know what she was, beyond who she’d been. She wasn’t sure she _could_ be more than who she’d been.

_I think she’s smart enough to manage that._

Someone tugged at the back of her sleeve. When Lan Fan looked around, Caterina was hovering at her back, somehow making herself very small. “Hello,” she said in Amestrian. Someone had put traditional noble makeup on her, and it didn’t quite fit the angles of her face. ( _And when,_ Lan Fan realized, startled, _did you start noticing whether makeup looked well on someone or not?_ ) “Can I stand with you? Only I can’t find Dong Mao or Lotus, and I don’t know how to ask in Xingese, and I just—I don’t want to get lost.”

Lan Fan kept her face carefully blank, blinking once at Dong Mao’s name and at Lotus’s, before groping for an Amestrian word she hadn’t thought about in forever. “Together?”

Caterina nodded, and settled in, her eyes huge, as the drums ended. The Emperor shifted, left his chair. He was in the Elric braid, again, hair swept back from his forehead for the weight of the crown, and his robes were so dark a green they looked almost black.

“Well met, cousins,” he said. “And after tonight, merry partings.”

“Well met and merry partings, Imperial Majesty.”

“We will not keep you for very long. After all, you have many things to be getting to, on the last day of this year’s Gathering.” At the bottom of the dais, Shan turned his head, and murmured something to another guard. “We will only say that we wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. Tonight, we will celebrate another year in the history of our empire. We can only hope it has been memorable.”

Suyin snorted under her breath.

“Shall we begin, Minister,” said the Emperor, and Shen Liu stepped forward. Through the gap he left behind, Lan Fan spotted Xiao Niao Song, the edges of her tattoo painted with bright gold ink. Something bottomed out in her guts. Lan Fan turned to Caterina, shifting away a little.

“My cousin—” she gestured to Suyin “—will be here. I need two minutes.”

She had to flare two fingers and say _minutes_ twice, once in Xingese, and once in Amestrian, before Caterina understood. Lan Fan’s heart was beating very fast, all of a sudden, the rhythm looming in her ears. _Idealists,_ she thought. _Possibilities. Things that can be changed._

_I want this._

“Lady Song,” she said, when she came within hearing rage. Lady Song turned, her eyebrows lifting. On her other side was Xiao Xie, clutching her copy of _Tomiko’s Letters_ to her chest. “May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” said Lady Song smoothly. She put a hand to the small of Xiao Xie’s back. “Go find your sister, Xiao Xie.”

“I finished the third chapter,” said Xiao Xie as she left, and Lan Fan’s mouth twitched. “Why don’t more people know Nohinra?”

Lady Song’s lips curved up into a little smile. Still, she swept Lan Fan into the circle of her women, scooting them to the far side of the Gathering Hall. Lan Fan thought she spotted Aiguo Cao watching them as they passed, his mouth twisting unhappily. _And isn’t that interesting._ “Have you remembered something about the Minari, Lady Ma?”

“No. No, I think—I think you’ll be fine, there. As long as you remember them as individuals.” She took a breath, and let it out, shaking. “No, I—I met with Minister Zhang.”

Lady Song’s eyebrows snapped together. She searched Lan Fan’s face. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “He told me.”

“I asked him to wait for my answer,” Lan Fan said. “But—but I’m giving it to you. When you propose your committee—”

The word stuck in her throat for a moment. She turned, looked back at the dais. She was searching for her master, but she caught Huian watching her instead. The Dowager Empress didn’t look away; she rested two fingers to her cheek, mirroring the mark she’d left on Lan Fan, the corner of her mouth curling up. Lan Fan’s breathing eased, steadied, settled into a rhythm that was deep and calm and _real_. She turned back to Xiao Niao Song.

“When you propose your committee,” she said, and this time her voice didn’t shake. “I want you to be sure to add my name to the list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my Tumblr is shu-of-the-wind. Next update is scheduled for Christmas Eve.


	23. Tank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *says she'll update on Christmas Eve*  
> Also me: *does not update until following October*
> 
> Thank you all for your patience, and your stalwart devotion. (Can I say that, or does that sound smug?) SotB is not and will never been dropped; I may vanish for long periods of time (see: this past year) but I have no intention of abandoning Lan Fan to the wilds of the unknown. 
> 
> ...so.
> 
> Anything good about this chapter is owed entirely to my astounding beta, Viki; all mistakes within are my own.
> 
> DRAMATIS PERSONAE: 
> 
> **Lan Fan Huo** : Also known as **Feiyan Ma** , a spy who still doesn't quite know where she stands but is trying her damnedest anyway.  
>  **His Imperial Majesty, Ling Yao, the Dawn Emperor** : He pines a lot.  
>  **Her Highness Princess Mei Chang** : She also pines a lot, but is grumpier about it.  
>  **Suyin Yao** : Also known by her steppes name of **Sarangerel** , she is the wife of the Commander of the Imperial Guard, and, in Lan Fan's cover story, her cousin. Fuu once told her Lan Fan's steppes name, and she seems to know more than she lets on about Lan Fan's past.  
>  **The Feng Triplets, Dong Mao, Xinzhe, and Lien Hua** : They are currently plotting to take the life of the Dowager Empress, although Lien Hua is Lan Fan's particular friend.  
>  **Her Imperial Highness, The Empress Dowager, Huian Yao** : Nobody likes her very much.  
>  **Commander Shan Yao** : Suyin's husband, Lan Fan's supervisor, and long-suffering guardsman.  
>  **Gen Chang** : Speaking of long-suffering guardsmen, Chang was assigned to keep an eye on Lan Fan after a failed assassination attempt.  
>  **Caterina della Babarigo** : The fiancee of one Dong Mao Feng. Not particularly culturally sensitive.  
>  **Bao Zhang, Minister of the Right** : A member of the Imperial Cabinet, and a member of the Resolationary Committee alongside...  
>  **Xiao Niao Song, First Governor of Song-guo** : Head of the matriarchal Song family, and member of the Resolutionary Committee.  
>  **Jian Zhang, Master of the Horse** : Exactly what he sounds like.  
>  **Xiaoqing** : A half-Qarashi, half-Xingese girl who used to be a Firebrand.  
>  **Peizhi** : A guttersnipe who has almost miraculous powers with the angry warhorse Changchang.

**Twenty-Two: Tank**

 

_Al,_

_Caught your last letter by the skin of our respective teeth and have altered course for Thamasq as requested. Guess we should’ve figured something was happening—pretty sure you Elrics are like one of those magnets that you drag through sand; you get a bunch of pointy things sticking to you just by moving around, except with you it’s trouble and not needles_.

_To be honest it’s kind of a relief to hear that all that stuff has been going down while we were off checking Mt. Buwei. Much as it would have been helpful to have your damn brain here to explain some of this shit to us (if I hear one more thing about the Dragon’s Pulse I am going to scratch my eyes out with my own quills) I don’t think I could stomach any political nonsense, and I know Gerso couldn’t. Us staying away from the capitol for the moment seems to be the best bet. Soldiers don’t have a place in fights like this. We’d only make things more difficult._

**Gerso here. Zampano had to go off and buy more of those meat bun things, he gets peckish when he’s scribbling. Though to be honest that’s typical piglet behavior: think too hard and you need to start munching. (He hit me. He’s abusive.)**

**Sad to say he’s right, though. Neither of us would be good at dealing with the shit that’s going down in the capitol. Not to mention: kind of scant information to go off of with this, boyo. Fires of God, Letoists, and guns. That’s it? No shipping company, no label, no names, nothing else? It’ll be a miracle if we find more than a whisper.**

**Still, we’ll look into it. Faster this gets done, faster we can go back to looking into getting back to normal. Cheers for the new address; Zampano’s better at shaping these damn pictograms than I am, but the ones you included for Pubuchuan (sp.?) are big enough that even I can work it out eventually. ~~You made a move on that damn princess yet?~~**

_If we find anything of interest between Tang-guo and this Thamasq then we’ll drop you a line. Otherwise, next you’ll hear from us will be from Arraqash!_

\-- _Kristo Zampano_ **(and Malloch Gerso!)**

*

_8 November 1918  
_ _3rd Year of the Dawn Emperor_

It almost seemed like there was an audible sigh of relief from the staff of the Imperial City as soon as the Gathering ended. The Closing Ceremony meant a good half of the court would be preparing to return home—or, at the very least, take a good deal of the weight off of the capitol, and leave only half their numbers behind. First Governors who had fulfilled their yearly quota for the time clause (or had been granted dispensation to neglect that obligation this year, like the Gao and the Jiang) took their leave to get back to business; families without eligible daughters for the Lotus Hall dashed off to find messenger hawks and eligible cousins to put forward, instead. Or so Lan Fan imagined, anyway.

“It’s like watching ants scurry about,” said Suyin one morning, as Lan Fan struggled to not get kicked in the ribs. She was trying to put a saddle on Changchang today, which was always an exercise in futility. _And the definition of madness,_ she thought, whacking Changchang in the ribs with her flesh hand when she tried to break Lan Fan’s foot for the fourth time, _is trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result._ Still, it kept her mind busy, at least. “All this fuss over an empty hall.”

“Over the seat of the Ascending Empress,” Lan Fan said, and bit her tongue. Changchang had caught the toe of her boot with one enormous hoof. “I will _bite_ you if you keep doing that, and cut you up and feed you to the Empress’s hunting bitches, and then we’ll see how heartless you actually are!”

Changchang blew air out her nose.

“Yank her ear,” Suyin said. “She doesn’t like it when you do that, and it’s better than smacking her nose.”

“Someone’s already clipped one of them. I don’t want her to be frightened of me doing the same to the other.” Lan Fan shoved hard at Changchang’s hip until the mare finally sighed, and shifted off. Her toes were throbbing. Trying not to limp, she heaved the saddle back over her automail, and started calculating the possible trajectories for how Changchang could leap away from her. “She’s fighting just to fight, today.”

Suyin rolled her eyes, and folded her arms over her chest. She had the pinched, unhappy look of a woman who was spending a great deal of time trying not to vomit, and wasn’t succeeding very well. Her qi, which usually echoed like wind under the wings of a hawk, was barely a flutter beyond Lan Fan’s shields. “Zhang is right, you know. If you don’t ensure that she knows you’re lead mare, she’ll fight just to fight every day for the rest of her life. I know you know that, and even if you hadn’t, Zhang’s treatise talks about it a _lot_.”

Lan Fan blinked, slowly. “You’ve read it?”

“I’ve been in the flatlands far longer than you, cousin,” said Suyin. “I read that in the first week I was at the palace. Master Zhang and I are old friends.”

A few stalls down, Jian Zhang grunted.

“You know it’s true, horsemaster.” Suyin leaned back against the nearest stall door. “Let her bully you and she’ll always bully you.”

“It’s not as if I’m letting her do it on purpose,” said Lan Fan, sourly. “Thank you very much for the concern.”

“You’re welcome,” said Suyin. On the other side of the stable, Chang snorted, and resettled his face to a mask when Lan Fan turned around to scowl at him. “Have you finished packing?”

Lan Fan couldn’t answer right away. She’d finally managed to dump the saddle on Changchang’s back, and now she had to keep it from sliding right back off again. It was only once the girth was cinched down that she brushed her hair back up out of her eyes, and cleared her throat. “Mostly. There are a few things left, and I think Niu Lu is taking care of those today.” Though she didn’t see why she now had so many pairs of shoes, or why they were necessary. The notion that clothes were armor worked well enough until she’d seen how much space the fleet of shoes had taken up in her “old” trunk, and Niu Lu had purchased a second just for clothes. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

 _I used to be able to pack everything I needed in a knapsack,_ Lan Fan thought, mournfully. _I used to be able to carry it all on my own. When did that stop?_

“Good,” said Suyin. “We can’t leave late, not if we’re traveling with the Emperor.”

“We won’t, cousin.”

Silence fell. Lan Fan hadn’t been surprised, exactly, when Suyin had expressed an interest in coming out to see how Changchang was doing. Suyin had been more aggressive about spending time with her cousin Feiyan than she had before the Closing Ceremony, mostly, Lan Fan theorized, because of everything that had happened with the Empress Dowager. She at least had stopped asking if Lan Fan was all right, which was an enormous relief; there were only so many times Lan Fan could say _I’m well, thank you_ before people stopped believing her, before the pinch in her guts turned into something impossible to hide. It was never not going to hurt, she was fairly sure, but the more people asked, the harder it was to disguise.  

Suyin settled her palm to her belly. At four months pregnant, or thereabouts, there was the slightest curve to her stomach that couldn’t be explained away as too large a dinner. It was only visible at certain angles, though, and never in her court silks. It was only after Lan Fan had yanked Changchang back under control for the third time in five minutes that Suyin said, “I hope you won’t be uncomfortable rooming with us.”

Lan Fan blinked again. They’d made the decision that Lan Fan would officially be moving into the Commander and Suyin’s Pubuchuan rooms as soon as Feiyan Ma had been extended an invitation to the waterfalls; the Pubuchuan winter court was typically only about half the size of the Imperial City, with half the staff and half the room, and that meant a selective guest list and, occasionally, cramped living quarters. Cramped by courtly standards, anyway. “Why would it make me uncomfortable? You’re family. We’ve shared tents. Besides, the rooms I’ve had here are—they’re very big.”

“I know.” Suyin still had an odd look on her face, though. “I just wanted to make certain.”

“Who else am I going to share with?” Lan Fan yanked Changchang’s head down, and tried very hard not to roll her eyes when the mare tried to sink her teeth into Lan Fan’s automail hand, _again_. “You know that doesn’t do anything,” she said, to the horse, not to Suyin. Then she continued. “Lien Hua asked, but Mingli says it wouldn’t be proper for me to share rooms with the Fengs, considering Xinzhe and Dong Mao both have fiancées and I’m unattached. Not to mention it wouldn’t make sense, considering I’m here to be with you, not with them.” Lan Fan considered. “I don’t think Lien Hua would have asked, only now that the engagement’s official between the Feng and the Cao she wants to keep her friends closer than she did before.”

Suyin watched Lan Fan through her lashes. “Is that what you are?”

“What?” said Lan Fan, and yanked her automail fingers out of Changchang’s range. “ _Calm_ , Changchang.”

“Friends,” said Suyin. “With the Feng. Is that what you are?”

Lan Fan bit her tongue. _Yes,_ she thought. But also no. Yes, because she didn’t want to kill the Fengs, didn’t want to have to put herself between them and the Emperor—though she would, without question, if it became necessary—but no, because every word they said was noted down in her mind to be picked apart later, because the only reason she knew them in the first place was to uncover whether or not they were a threat. It was all a knot of heavy rope in her ribs, squeezing tight.

“You know what I am,” she said, and pulled Changchang’s head down to adjust her bridle. She shifted to northwestern, and ignored Chang’s questioning look over the pages of his novel. “Has there been any confirmation of her story?”

“It’s difficult to confirm when it’s purely hearsay,” said Suyin. “Which isn’t to say it doesn’t fit the facts.”

“She wasn’t lying.” Lan Fan would have sensed if Lien Hua had been lying. “She told me the truth.”

“Just because she wasn’t lying doesn’t mean she wasn’t telling the truth.”

Her guts curdled a little, but Lan Fan couldn’t argue. If you believed something was the truth, spoke it like it was, it sounded and felt like truth, even if it was a lie. “I believe her.”

“I know you do.”

“Is the Commander still angry with me?”

Suyin sucked her teeth. “He was never angry with you.”

Considering the look on his face when Lan Fan had told him she’d joined the Resolutionary Committee, she rather doubted that, but still. “If you say so.”

“He doesn’t want you to be distracted, is all. You have a great deal to manage, at the moment.”

“I’m handling it.” _Somehow._ “I—I know it’s reckless. But I want—”

She trailed off. _I want to be a part of the committee. I want to work towards improving something. I want to help the Emperor make Xing a better place, and I can’t be his Shadow anymore, but I can help right wrongs left long undone. And I want to do it._ I _want to. For me._ The words tangled up on her tongue. Still, Suyin smiled a little, and said, “I know.”

Lan Fan flushed to the tips of her ears, and shoved Changchang off her foot again.

“Shan is fine. He’s cooled off, and he’ll stop being a toad soon enough.” Suyin tipped her head, considering. “What are you going to do with her?”

“With who?”

“The warhorse.”

As if she knew she was the topic of discussion, Changchang snorted. Lan Fan pulled on her bridle. “I already told you. I’m bringing her.”

“She’s uncontrollable.”

“Master Zhang is coming along with us to Pubuchuan. And I’m going to keep working with her.” She groped for words. “I told Peizhi I would take care of her. I’m not going to make that a lie.”

She’d also told Peizhi that he could come and see Changchang whenever he wanted, which would be difficult if Changchang were in a different country altogether. For the first time in a week, though, she’d been able to make time to go down to Xuanwu. Technically, it was time stolen from her training and linguistic sessions with Mingli and Caterina della Babarigo, but she could miss one in the rush for Pubuchuan, she was sure. Suyin watched as Lan Fan bounced once, twice, and heaved herself up onto Changchang’s back. For once, Changchang didn’t bolt like a rabid elephant. “You think you can manage her outside of a paddock?”

“We’re traveling with courtiers, not on the steppes. You said it would take at least a week. I’ll be able to ride her out if she gets antsy, and with luck she’ll tire. We won’t get there until the full moon.” Which was also when all the ladies up for the Lotus Hall would be arriving at the winter palace, but that was a completely different matter. Lan Fan put it out of her mind. “She’s better than she was.”

“That’s not saying much.”

“I’m not leaving her behind,” said Lan Fan, feeling strangely whittled. Suyin blew air out of her nose. Still, her eyes gleamed a little.

“She’s your mare.”

 _She’s not_ , Lan Fan almost said, but she bit her tongue. The idea still tugged at her heels all the way out the door of the stables, trailing like viscous shadow.

The situation with Changchang was the least of her problems. Setting aside the Feng and their plot against the Empress—which she had no more details of, despite the fast approaching deadline of Pubuchuan—there was the Emperor to think of, and the committee, and, if she were frank, the Empress herself. The Imperial City was all in uproar, and the only time she could get to herself to think these days was when she clambered onto Changchang and rode the mare practically into the ground. Not even her rooftop runs with Chang through Xuanwu searching for the Firestarters could give her peace anymore, though they kept her in shape better than playfighting with a warhorse ever could.

Lan Fan jammed her knee into Changchang’s side, turned her in a tight circle. A perfunctory look into the palace records had revealed no information about anyone named Lotus affiliated with the Feng household, but then again, all their spies before her had been dispatched before they could uncover anything of note. Aside from Xinzhe’s jokes, both Xinzhe and Lien Hua were reticent to talk about her as anything outside of her role as Caterina’s translator and bodyguard. Lotus was a knife wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and she worried Lan Fan more than Lan Fan wanted to admit.

 _The more cities that fall to the Firebrands, the more desperate the Feng will become, and the more desperate they become, the more dangerous they are._ The Feng were desperate to kill the Empress, and that would mean the triplets and all that allied with them would turn more and more deadly as the days went by. Especially with the Cao behind them, now that the engagement had been scheduled. February twentieth, 1919. His Eminence’s fourth year on the throne. If the Fires of God didn’t succeed in their own plots and march against Xing, anyway. If the Emperor and his people succeeded, and the rebels failed.

 _There is no other option._  

Her problems settled in two overlapping circles in her mind. On the left was the Feng, the plot against the Empress, the weapons shipped from Thamasq, the firebrands and the cities razed in Feng-guo. On the right was the court, ministers and committees and governors and wives. ( _Potential_ wives, a voice muttered in her head. Not actual wives. Potential wives. Most of them weren’t even at court yet. Not that they were any of her business at all.) In the overlap, the Empress, villain and victim, hunter and hunted. Murderer. Child killer. _She killed my sister in the womb,_ Lien Hua had said. _I hate her._ And Xinzhe, who’d held her so tightly at the Opening Ceremony, who’d been half-falling apart with it: _I hate her more than anything._

A hate like that could eat a person up until there was nothing left inside but ash. A hate like that was almost impossible to dissuade. A hate like that: it was permanent.

Lan Fan shook it off, and urged Changchang up into a canter.

*

The Garden of Endless Streams was filled with maids when she made her way back to the kitchen garden rooms. The place looked very bare, now. Aside from her borrowed books and one or two sets of clothes—including a new gown that Niu Lu had had commissioned for her, in spite of Lan Fan’s protests—all of Feiyan Ma’s things had been packed away in preparation for Pubuchuan. Lan Fan toed off her boots, and washed her face in the basin before settling on the end of the bed. She only had an hour before she had to head down to Xuanwu—not that anyone in Xuanwu kept strict appointments, but she was punctual, and would remain that way—which wasn’t long enough for a full bath. She would have to make do with a damp cloth and a change of clothes, which she would have had to do anyway, considering she couldn’t exactly wander down to Xuanwu in expensive silks or in her deel.

Something, some twist, unwound in the back of her throat as she dragged her tangzhuang free of the chair. No meeting with Mingli and Lien Hua and Caterina, she thought, and pulled her sweaty riding clothes up over her head. No listening to whispers around palace corners. No meetings with Lady Song that made her head hurt, no fretting about the committee, and absolutely no chance of turning a corner to see the Empress at the other end of it. The slums were concrete and comprehensible, and she wasn’t going to get the chance to visit again for four full months. _November to March in Pubuchuan, to wait out the winter with hot springs and waterfalls._ The snows would make hearing complaints in the committee complicated, though. And if it _did_ storm, they might be trapped in the Pubuchuan palace for a week or more, and everyone would go stir-crazy, hang the political consequences. There were ghost stories about men and women who’d killed each other in the Pubuchuan palace, driven mad by the loneliness of blizzards and the isolation of the valley at midwinter. The most notable incident had occurred during the reign of the Scorpion Emperor, where fifty of the palace eunuchs had enacted a rebellion, and slaughtered nearly a score of imperial cousins, and their households, before finally being put down by a team of alkahestrists. For their crimes, they’d been tied with wire, and flesh peeled off their bodies from where it bulged between the metal. Considering the filthy looks she was getting in the hallway from Minister Liu and his brethren, someone was campaigning for an encore.

Since the Emperor had approved the committee—officially, the Committee for the Investigation and Resolution of Human Rights Abuses, Conflicts, and Injustices, which Minister Zhang had just taken to calling the Resolutionary Committee—there had been no chance to meet. “Politics,” Bao Zhang had said, “is a wheel that grinds slowly, except when it doesn’t,” and in this case it was grinding slowly indeed. Shen Liu had nearly had an apoplectic fit in the middle of the Gathering Hall when Xiao Niao Song had proposed the committee; every day since, the Ministers of the Right and Left, not to mention the Emperor himself, had been closeted together arguing over who could be on the committee, and who couldn’t.

“They’ve narrowed it down to five positions,” Xiao Niao Song had told her over a game of _xiangqi_ one morning. (Lady Song had taken it upon herself to teach Lan Fan not only xiangqi, but _go_ and even dominoes. Why, Lan Fan had no idea, but it made Mingli laugh when he heard about it.) “Myself, since they can’t get rid of me. You, because that’s inarguable, as I have made clear to the Minister of the Left. Bao will be supervising, and vote only in the event of a tie; he will have no voice in the proceedings and will serve only to keep the peace. The other two positions are unoccupied, though I expect they’ll be filled soon enough.”

“It doesn’t seem like enough people to investigate war crimes,” said Lan Fan. “If there are only four of us.”

“That’s because the Empress Dowager and Minister Liu want this committee strangled to death as soon as possible,” said Xiao Niao Song. “Preferably in a back alley where the body can be disposed of without comment. If they can drown us in busy work before the investigations even begin, then they can argue for the dissolution of the committee on the grounds of nothing being done.”

It seemed to be a very underhanded way to get things done. Then again, that was how the court worked. Or some parts of it, at least. “That’s backwards. If they don’t want the committee, why can’t they just say so instead of burying it?”

Lady Song had cut her a look through her eyelashes, and promptly thieved one of Lan Fan’s soldiers. Xiao Xie turned her page of _Tomiko’s Letters_ , and took notes, humming _Song of a Northern Beauty_ under her breath. “Protesting a committee formed for the investigation of crimes against the people of Xing leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Both the Empress Dowager and Shen Liu are far more subtle than that.”

“Minister Liu tried to shout me down in front of half the court when I talked about what happened to the Nohin,” said Lan Fan. “So did the Empress.”

“But if you’ll recall neither of them claimed you were lying,” said Lady Song. “At least not to your face, and especially not in public. Though there have been rumors circulating since then that smell of one or the other of them in that regard.”

“There have always been rumors circulating about me,” said Lan Fan, and stared at the board. It wasn’t as though she’d never played xiangqi before Feiyan Ma had arrived at court—she’d learned it with Master Ling, long before she’d been made his personal guard—but even back then she’d never caught the trick to the game. She’d stopped playing Master Ling before she’d turned nine, and within a year he’d blazed past her grandfather and all other comers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him be relaxed enough to play chess. “I’ve put them out of my mind.”

“You shouldn’t.” When Lan Fan moved another soldier, Lady Song cut off its retreat with a horse. “Rumor is a double-edged blade, Lady Ma. If you’re going to be in politics, you need to be aware of how it can cut.”

“I thought you and Minister Zhang wanted me on the committee because I’m not political.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know the weapons your enemy’s using,” said Lady Song. “I’m going to take your general in the next four moves, you know.”  

“I don’t see how.”

“Rumor,” said Lady Song. Which made no sense at all, but she had still taken Lan Fan’s general in the next four moves. It was still irksome, even days later. She drew her hair out from beneath her collar, and pinned it up with an emeici before going to free her blue dragon mask from its hiding place. Once Peizhi and Changchang were dealt with, her library books returned, and the last of her weapons strapped down, she would have nothing at all to do before joining the imperial retinue, and escaping the capitol before the snows came.

There was a little, sputtering flare of qi at the door. Niu Lu. Just beyond it there was another signature, cinnamon and something like sun-warmed cloth. Caterina. Without Lotus, Lan Fan realized, and blinked. How in all the hells had Caterina been able to evade Lotus? Or Lien Hua, for that matter, considering how Lien Hua had decided to foster her. “My lady,” said Niu Lu, and dipped her head, curls spilling forward over her shoulder. “My apologies for interrupting your contemplation.”

“You aren’t interrupting anything.” Lan Fan undid the bun again. Caterina probably would be intimidated by an emeici used as a hair ornament. Better to braid it, at the moment. “I wasn’t contemplating. What is it?”

“Contessa della Babarigo is here.”

“I know,” said Lan Fan. She curled her toes against the floor, wishing she’d kept her shoes on. “Were there any messages about her coming?”

“No, my lady.” Niu Lu’s eyes creased. “Shall I send her away?”

“No, don’t.” Caterina had never left the Eastern Ward of the Imperial City without an escort before, so far as Lan Fan knew. It was a miracle she’d managed to find her way all the way to the Garden of Endless Streams. “Let her in.”

It was much easier to see Niu Lu’s Xingese mother in her face when she stood side by side with Caterina. They both had red, curling hair, and hazel eyes, but Niu Lu’s was darker; her face was more angled, her eyes more Xingese, her nose not quite as pointed. Caterina was much paler, and next to Niu Lu’s tall, willowy frame, she was round and soft as a moon cake. “ _Buongiorno_ ,” she said, and peeped at Niu Lu out of the corner of her eye. Then she remembered herself, and fumbled into Xingese. “Your servant. Aerugo?”

“Xingese,” said Lan Fan, as Niu Lu bowed and vanished out the door again. Chang murmured something out in the hall, and Niu Lu laughed. “Mostly.”

“Oh,” said Caterina, and began to fidget with her skirt. If all Aerugan noblewomen dressed like Caterina, they must be very uncomfortable. The waistline looked like it pinched. “I see.”

She fell quiet again, and peeked at the walls. Lan Fan stacked the books on the desk again. “Where is Lotus?”

Abruptly, Caterina’s face turned to storm clouds. She pursed her lips. “Dong Mao,” said Caterina, and that was enough of an explanation. Dong Mao and Lotus hadn’t been overtly obvious about talking in front of Lan Fan since the night of the Cao party, but judging from how Xinzhe talked about the pair of them, there could arguably be something there. “She say, _stay_. But I go.”

She looked quite pleased with herself for it, too. More than her getting away from Lotus: Lan Fan was surprised that the palace guards hadn’t stopped to ask Caterina where she was going. _Although it’s difficult to ask someone who doesn’t understand enough of the language to answer._ “Why?”

Caterina made a face. “I was bored,” she said in Amestrian. “And I know I’m supposed to say that in Xingese, but I don’t know _bored_. There’s nothing for me to do here when I’m not practicing. I wanted to see if I could find you. Or Mr. Elric, but when I asked people about him they just said _no_.”

“Alphonse lives in Zhuque,” said Lan Fan in Amestrian. “Not the palace.”

“That explains that.” Caterina pinched her lower lip. “I’m probably being very rude, I know how formal everything is here, and how structured it all is, but I didn’t want to sit alone in the rooms they gave me, and I don’t know anyone here outside of you, and Lord Chen, and the triplets, and Mr. Elric, and Mr. Elric said that I could trust you, and—I don’t know. Do you understand?”

“Some,” said Lan Fan. She curled her hands in her lap. “You were lonely?”

“A little, but that’s not all of it.” Caterina wavered. “Your Amestrian’s much better than you let on, I’m almost certain. And I think you speak Old Ishvalan, too, but I’m not as sure of that.” She rubbed her hand a little, and Lan Fan remembered: she’d squeezed Caterina’s fingers hard enough to pinch, back when Dong Mao and Xinzhe had used Old Ishvalan at the Cao party. _Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy_. “Please don’t say you don’t understand me, Lady Ma. Please.”

The Commander was going to be grumpy with her. “I—” She let her tongue trip a little. It wasn’t hard. The Amestrian was coming much easier, now that she’d been practicing with Caterina for a while, but it still stuck sometimes. “I understand more than I speak.”

“I knew it!” Caterina lunged forward, caught up Lan Fan’s automail hand in both her own. She squeezed. “Mr. Elric said that if I needed anything I could talk to you, and I hoped—I want to know if I can trust you, Lady Ma. I don’t know many people here, and I hope—I hope I can. You were kind to me and you didn’t have to be and I want to be able to believe Mr. Elric and trust you, because I need a friend in this place, and I know Lien Hua is going to be my sister-in-law but she never tells me anything, and Lotus—she’s very polite, but she won’t talk to me like I’m a person at all, and you do, you and Mr. Elric, you’re the only ones who have, and I’ve heard little things about you and how you’re new to the palace and how people don’t like you much but you’ve been so kind and I thought that maybe—I don’t know. That it would be all right.”

She said all of this in one breath, and took a great gulp of air when she was finished. _Like a lost puppy_ , Xinzhe had said. It wasn’t wholly inaccurate.

“You want to be friends,” said Lan Fan, slowly. Caterina leapt on it like a wildcat, squeezing Lan Fan’s automail fingers hard enough to creak.

“Yes. I knew it would be hard coming here but I didn’t know that—” Caterina blinked down at Lan Fan’s metal fingers, and let go of them very quickly, knotting her hands up in the brocade of her skirt. “Some parts of it have been more difficult than I expected. Nothing has really turned out the way I thought it would.”

Lan Fan turned that over in her head for a time. It stung at her, pricked. She knew what it was like to have nothing turn out as expected. “Your fiancé doesn’t like me much,” she said. “I’m probably not the best choice for a friend.”

“I don’t think he likes me very much either,” said Caterina. Her eyes glittered. “He never says a word to me if he can help it, and he’s always so angry, and his brother teases all the time. Lien Hua says he’ll warm up eventually, but I don’t think he will. Not to me, anyway.” She fretted with her sleeve. “I know I’m probably not what anyone expected, and that I’m silly, and I don’t speak any Xingese and that’s unfair when the triplets have learned Aerugan just to speak to me, but I was—I prayed that this marriage would work out. Arranged marriages aren’t—uncommon in Aerugo, but they’re not common, either, and, I mean, my parents were an arranged marriage and they’re the best couple I know, so I was hoping it would—be like that, for me, but it isn’t, and I just—the thought just made me terribly lonely.”

The urge to punch Dong Mao Feng in the gut was getting stronger every day, and it could become problematic if she didn’t manage the temptation as soon as possible. Lan Fan wrestled her face back under control. “I don’t know why Alphonse said you could trust me. I don’t know him very well.”

“He’s an alchemist,” said Caterina, like this made a smidgeon of sense. “Alchemists are very good judges of character.”

That stupid little voice in the back of Lan Fan’s head piped up with _what does that say about Amestris, then_ , and she squashed it under her boot.

“If you don’t want to be seen with me,” said Caterina, “I would understand.”   

“No, I’m not—” She nipped at her tongue. _Think, Lan Fan._ “We are both strangers in a strange land.”

Caterina sat quietly for a second or two. “I don’t understand.”

“I would be honored,” said Lan Fan, “to be your friend, Caterina.”  

“Oh,” said Caterina, and beamed at her. She caught at Lan Fan’s hand again, and Lan Fan jumped. If all Aerugans were as touchy as Caterina della Babarigo, the Xingese ambassador there must be very confused. “I mean, it’s not very honorable, but—good.”

A puppy, indeed. Lan Fan let Caterina squeeze her automail fingers one more time, and then drew her hand away again. “I need to change,” she said. “I have a meeting down in the city.”

“Oh,” said Caterina. Her ears flushed pink. “I mean—do you think it would be all right if I came?”

“No.” Caterina was far too memorable, and clearly much too high-born to ever be seen in Xuanwu. Not that the Fengs and the Lus and the Caos hadn’t wandered down to the Sevens Race the same way, but the Fengs, Lus, and Caos were Xingese. Caterina most decidedly was not. When Caterina’s face fell, though—and she was so very expressive, Caterina della Babarigo, everything playing across her nose and mouth like an actor on the stage—Lan Fan said, “It’s just an errand before we leave the capitol. It won’t take long.”

“Are you sure I can’t come?”

Something flickered in the back of her head. _Why do you want to come?_ The notion that Caterina could be spying for the Fengs was like ivy, creeping over stone. Possible, Lan Fan, decided, but unlikely. Especially considering Dong Mao’s reticence to speak to her at all. And unless Lien Hua had been lying, and Lan Fan didn’t think she was, Lien Hua and Xinzhe both trusted her. No, not a spy, just…awkward. And terribly, terribly lonely.

“Very sure.” Lan Fan watched the sadness flicker over Caterina’s face. No matter who her parents were, she was by no means built for politics. Or for guarding, or for anything that would need her to keep a straight face. She didn’t seem capable of it. “You shouldn’t have left your rooms without Lotus.”

“I don’t see why.”

“It can be dangerous here.” She bit her tongue. “I’m not a native of the court, Caterina, but—but there are reasons for the rules. There are places you shouldn’t go alone, with no Xingese. And the Feng will worry if they can’t find you where you’re supposed to be.”

“I know that, but—” She tugged on her sleeve. “It’s lonely. Even if other people are there.”

There weren’t many people in the palace who could speak enough Amestrian or Aerugan to have a conversation with Caterina, but maybe…Lan Fan twisted her fingers into the chain of the firebrand medallion. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in the city. If we send a dove to Lien Hua, she’ll come to talk to you.” Probably. Hopefully. She would make her, if she didn’t. “You won’t be alone.”

Caterina sighed, and stood. “I suppose. She’s so acerbic.”

“Lien Hua is—” Lan Fan shrugged. “Lien Hua is Lien Hua.”

“That doesn’t help very much, Lady Ma.”

“I’m not very good at words.” She made herself smile. “Especially in Amestrian.”

“How did you get them to like you?” She smoothed wrinkles out of her high-waisted skirt. “I think—Lien Hua and Xinzhe. How did you get them to be your friends?”

Helplessly, Lan Fan shrugged again. If only the Feng weren’t so absolutely, blastedly two-faced about everything. No one in their right mind should be asking Feiyan Ma _or_ Lan Fan Huo about making friends. “I was honest.”

Caterina’s eyebrows went up. “That’s it?”

“It’s not as though I have much else to offer.”

“The Emperor likes you, though,” said Caterina, and there was a flicker of something wry and thoughtful around her mouth. “That’s something that’s valuable.”

“May he live ten thousand years,” said Lan Fan automatically in Xingese, and refused to blush. “The Fengs have never asked me for help with the Emperor. If I’m friends with them, it’s because I’m honest. That’s all.”  

There was a tap on the small, circular window out into the garden. A crow—Bao’s crow, Lan Fan thought, though she wasn’t completely sure—was perched on the sill. Caterina’s eyes grew large as wheels as Lan Fan went to the sliding door, opened it, and looked at the beast for a second. When she clicked her tongue, the bird said, “Percentages,” and bobbed its head once or twice. “Percentages.”

Yes. _Definitely_ Bao Zhang’s crow.

“Hello,” said Lan Fan, and crouched down beside it. When she offered her fingers, the crow nudged at them, and gave her an unmistakably filthy look. “You’re far from home. How did you find your way here?”

“Is that thing _yours_?”

“It’s Minister Zhang’s.” Still, the crow perched on her elbow when Lan Fan offered it. It was heavier than a hawk, weighted differently. The talons weren’t nearly so dangerous. There was a little strip of paper tied to its scaly leg, and when Lan Fan peeled it away, the crow croaked deep in its throat. “I don’t know if it has a name.”

“Oh,” said Caterina. “In Aerugo people use pigeons, not—not doves and hawks and crows.”

“People don’t use crows very often,” said Lan Fan, fading back into Xingese. There was only a single line on the strip of paper, in the tiniest script Lan Fan had ever seen. _Lunch at Pubuchuan, waterfall observation balcony, the day after the full moon._ “I’ve never seen anyone use a crow before Minister Zhang.”

“I don’t understand,” said Caterina in a plaintive sort of voice, but she ambled along anyway to watch Lan Fan write out a response.

*

“This,” said Mei, “is ridiculous. In the middle of what’s shaping up to be a war, you’re heading to the waterfalls to pick a _wife_?”

“It seemed an expedient way to get Liu off my back at the time, and to be fair I wasn’t aware of everything that was happening when I made the announcement,” said Ling, and waved off one of the servants who’d come to fuss with his trunks. He barely remembered to switch back to Amestrian in time to say, “No, leave it. I can manage.”

“This one does not—”

“Out,” Mei snapped, and the servant—a Jiang, Ling thought, though he wasn’t sure; much of the reserves had been called up from the servant’s hall to be able to cover the hubbub of half the court packing up and shifting palaces—bolted. _At least one of us knows what’s good for him._ Mei was in a mood, snarling and sparking, her braids threaded through with jade for once. They clicked around her waist, butterflies of every sort. A few of them were even carved through with alkahestrical circles. She snapped back into Amestrian. “It’s stupid, is what it is.”

“Thank you for that assessment,” said Ling, in a voice which meant, _if anyone else said that to me I could have them beheaded._ Mei, being Mei, did not take the hint.

“Seventy thousand weapons ferried through to Feng-guo, and we still don’t know how they’re getting into the country, or who’s letting them in. News from the west says that the Fires of God are making their way to Zhangcai, and if it falls, we have much more on our hands than the meagre rebellion of a few cultists.” She fumed. “How on earth did these people get past your birds?”

“Little Chang sister, I don’t know if you remember your geography lessons, but the empire is enormous. And Feng-guo is particularly difficult to get any information out of. Rather like pulling teeth from the mouth of a phoenix.”

Mei wrinkled her nose. “Phoenixes are myths. And they don’t have teeth.”

“Exactly,” said Ling, and opened a trunk. The servants had packed away his _dao_ already, and he felt naked without them. He could make do with the kunai, but he wasn’t Lan Fan, and it had never felt as natural in his hand as the swords did. “The Fengs are notoriously reclusive, and just as notoriously secretive. Which explains why so many of the things that have gone lately have gone so disastrously pear-shaped.”

“Pear-shaped?” Mei tipped her head. “I don’t understand.”

 _Come on, brat, don’t you know what that means?_ He shook the memory off. “It’s an Amestrian military term for something going not according to plan at all _._ ”

“What an odd expression.” She considered for a moment. “Pear-shaped. Pears have lovely shapes.”

“Don’t ask me to explain the idioms of another language. We both speak enough of them to know they make little sense.” No dao in this trunk, either. He slammed it shut. “Have you made anything of the alkahestrical circle our little hawk found in the rooms of the pheasants, yet?”

“As I’ve told you every day since she submitted her reports, I’ve no idea what that circle is meant for. It’s a mix of alkahestry and Amestrian alchemy, not to mention something that I could swear is Qarashi energy-eating; I’ve been able to puzzle out maybe a third of the symbols, but not much else. It’s devilish.” Mei chewed at her lip, and smoothed wrinkles out of her skirt. She was in Amestrian clothes again, today, a long flowing skirt and a buttoned shirt that were dangerously modern, regardless of the flow and sweep to them. Considering she’d been wearing skin-tight silks for every Gathering event and every party since he’d ascended, this was practically throwing herself into a nunnery, but it was still getting her odd looks from every servant and guard who came through his quarters. “She could deal with the numerical cypher, and me and Alphonse were meant to look into the alkahestrical circle, I get it, but it’s layered. I have no idea what it means, and without the other circles she mentioned, I doubt I’ll be able to uncover any context.”

“Does our friend know anything about Qarashi energy-eating?”

“He’d been planning on visiting Qarash on his way back to Amestris, not on his way out. It’s a difficult country to navigate without knowing the language, and there are very few in Amestris who speak it.” Mei rubbed at an embroidered butterfly on her skirt. “I’ve been trying to make sense of this for weeks now, and I can’t, and it’s _infuriating_.”

“Considering what it may be used for—”

Mei muttered something under her breath that sounded extraordinarily similar to _that old bitch._

“Considering what it may be used for,” Ling said again, in a louder voice, “it would be advisable to find someone who can understand it.”

“Why do you think I’m putting off traveling to Pubuchuan? Not that I’m deliriously excited to watch the whole of the court dancing on their toes trying to attract your attention, but I wanted to be able to look into this circle without the Feng catching wind of it.” She scrubbed at the edge of her lip with her thumb. “You’re certain that their spies are going with them?”

“So far as I can tell, the gardener is tagging along as a footman, and no one else affiliated with their household is remaining.” Ling gave her a wry look. “Not that you should have any trouble disguising yourself when you want to.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.” Mei blew air out her nose, and plopped into the nearest chair. She really was getting to be completely blasé about the whole imperial throne thing, he thought. It was faintly charming, in a frustrating sort of way. _I suppose this is how Ed thinks of Al._ “Al will be staying with me to help with the Amestrian aspects, but we should be at the palace before you get yourself engaged. Who are you tapping for that, by the way? I feel like as your favorite sibling—”

“Who says you’re my favorite sibling?”

“You mean I’m not?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I should get the first choice in regards to who my sister-in-law—”

“Technically cousin-in-law.”

“Psh,” said Mei. “I should get first choice as to who my sister-in-law and my Ascending Empress will be. If we don’t get along, it could be problematic.”

“Of course,” said Ling. “Because that’s my primary concern in the whole affair.”

“You’re the one who told the whole of Xing to bring their eligible daughters to the winter court by the full moon. You have no ground to stand on here, brother mine.”

“You,” he said, “are strikingly irreverent, and ought to be whipped.”

“Mm,” said Mei, and sprawled in the chair. “Most likely. Who’s on your short list?”

“Short list?”

“Don’t be coy and pretend you don’t know what that means, I’ve heard you use it before.” Mei threaded braids through her fingers. “Your short list of candidates. I’m assuming you have one. The Empress certainly does.”

“And who do you think would be on hers?” Ling settled at the end of a trunk, propping his chin in one hand. “Your own personal opinion.”

“None of the Song,” said Mei, promptly. “They’re making her angry by throwing in their weight behind the Resolutionary Committee, they won’t be an option for her unless they change their policies on nomads. A few of the highborn Lu, but that’s a guess. Possibly one or two of the Liu. Obviously the Zhao, she still has links to that family even though she’s been a part of the Yao practically since infancy.” Mei tapped at her lip. “Possibly the Xie.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know, but it would be a good match. Descendants of the God-Emperor marrying into the Lotus Hall of the Dawn Emperor.” She shrugged. “Of course there are no Changs on the table, as I would be putting them forward and I see no point. No Yao, for obvious reasons. Her best weapon would be one of the Zhao, or one of the Liu.”

“Do you think Lady Song will put her daughters forward?”

“She’d be a fool not to. Barring the youngest, they’re all of marriageable age, and First Governor Song isn’t stupid.” Mei gave him a thoughtful look. “And you would be stupid if you didn’t at least consider the Songs.”

“They’re on the list,” said Ling. “They’re a good family with a strong background and a history of producing heirs, of course they’re on the list.”

“Good,” said Mei, and continued. “The Feng don’t have anyone to present that I know of, so there’s a viper’s nest we can avoid, but outside of that…” She ticked it off on her fingers. “Lus, Caos, Ciaos, Qiaos, Xies, Zhangs, Zhaos, probably the Hu, Tians, Chengs, Xiongs, and Yuans. Those are the families I can think of off the top of my head that have people they could logically present, and that should most likely be gifted with a lotus upon their arrival at the winter palace.”

“So a thin herd, then,” said Ling.

“Don’t be bitter, you brought this on yourself.”

Ling sighed tight through his nose. “You really ought to be whipped.”

“Like you’d dare,” said Mei, her lips twitching. “I’m your favorite sister.”

“Like I have so many good ones to choose from.”

She hopped off her chair, and smoothed her skirt again. “Were you planning on offering Lady Ma a lotus?”

Ling didn’t still. He was far too practiced to freeze at a question so clearly meant to shock. Still, he didn’t particularly like hearing it, either. “I don’t know.”

“People will be expecting it.”

“I know.”

“Considering how clearly you’ve made your preferences known at this point, people will be more shocked if you _don’t_.”

“Believe me,” said Ling through his teeth, “I’m aware.”

“Though there could be certain advantages to giving her a lotus,” Mei said, musingly. “It would be a kick in the teeth for My Lady Bitch, and it would keep the pheasants on their line, but other than that…” She sucked her teeth. “Problematic.”

Ling said nothing. He went back to sorting through his trunks.

“Usually you’ve snapped at me by now,” said Mei.

“Have I not been snapping at you?”

“Usually it’s worse,” she said, and spirits, she actually sounded concerned. “Are you planning on offering her one?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “I haven’t decided.”

“You’re running out of time, you know.”

“I’m aware of that, Mei.”

“Clearly,” said Mei. She watched him fuss through the trunk for a moment. “What’s the harm in offering a lotus? It’s not as though it’s unexpected. Besides, she’s not about to try hard enough to actually present a problem for anyone, and you aren’t going to choose her. There’s no issue with it.”

 _I don’t want to make it worse._ He bit the inside of his cheek. He’d already ruined her life enough, this year. This month. He didn’t want to make it any more difficult than it already was. _I don’t want her to think she’s obligated to do something more than what she is when she’s already done so much for all of us._ “It’s complicated.”

“I’m an alkahestrist,” said Mei. Still, she didn’t push further than that. Her eyes had gone all shadowed and unhappy, and he had a feeling he knew precisely who had popped into her head. “It’s up to you.”

“It’s up to her,” said Ling, and she didn’t correct him. “Where’s Al?”

“Out in the city. I think he’s teaching that Firestarter girl the basics of alkahestry.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which is rich, considering he’s nowhere near close to mastering anything I’ve taught him, but it gives us an excuse to be down there.”

There was an odd kind of shudder with her words, rippling from top to toe. Ling watched her, carefully. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t like the slums,” said Mei shortly. “If you’ll excuse me, eminence, this one must attend to duties in other parts of the palace.”

“Don’t kill anyone,” said Ling.

“Depends on if anyone tries to kill me,” she said, and vanished down a side corridor. It took him another ten minutes to find his dao, wrapped and strapped to the back of one of the last trunks, and it was only once he’d settled in a chair with the swords in his lap that he actually let it process. The image. The notion. The idea of Feiyan Ma as a contestant for the Lotus Hall.

Mei was right; it would be expected, after everything that had happened during the Gathering. He’d made his preference known in the library, at the Gathering, on the morning rides. Time and again. It would be strange, suspicious even, for him to _not_ leave a lotus on her pillow, for her to not be pulled into the running. She would probably even be expecting it. She wasn’t stupid; she would have put it together, the Lotus Hall, the expectations. Even if she didn’t, the whole court was whispering about his preference for the Lady Ma; he was certain there would be hisses in corners about whether or not she would be requested in the Lotus Hall.

But—

_I missed you._

But she’d already had enough go wrong. Exposing her to the Lotus Hall, to the twist and turn of it—that he hadn’t been prepared for. Even in his deepest, darkest moments, in the most secret of his dreams, this—this had always been impossible. _She is out of reach, far out of reach, impossible._ He didn’t want to make it harder for her, no matter what he longed for, in the middle of the night where no one else could see the look on his face.

 _Feiyan Ma,_ he thought, just for a moment. Just for a heartbeat. _Ascending Empress_.

Impossible. And—his mouth twisted up—far too greedy.

He would leave it to her to decide, he thought, and unsheathed his dao. She would choose. And even if she chose to enter into the fray, he could not push her into a role she would not want. He never would.

“Imperial Majesty.” It was the Jiang, back and quivering in the door frame. The shaking didn’t stop when he realized Mei was no longer in attendance, but it didn’t get worse, either; Ling counted it as a win. “The Minister of the Right begs permission to attend.”

“Granted.” Ling sheathed the dao again. He couldn’t remember scheduling a meeting with Bao Zhang, today, but there was no harm. He wasn’t so heartily sick of the man’s face as he was of Shen Liu. “Let him in.”

The Jiang fled again, muttering. _It’s not as though I’m venomous,_ Ling thought, and looked down at the swords in his lap. Usually it was amusing, to have footmen so frightened of him, but today it scraped. Who knew why.

_Come on, brat. You know exactly why._

“Imperial Majesty.” Bao Zhang was in flourishing bronze, today, all earrings and glittering robes. He swept a bow as deep as a lake, and waited. “Life, health, and strength to you. This one is honored to be admitted with no appointment.”

“Like you haven’t seen more than enough of me in meetings about your damn committee,” said Ling, but it was fond. “You can stand.”

Bao straightened, and tucked his hands into his sleeves. “This one begs forgiveness for the animosity presented at those meetings, eminence. It was not this one’s intention to bring your eminence into such a scalding fracas.”

“It seems a bit more acidic than simply scalding, Minister, but we accept your apology.” Ling unsheathed a dao again, and tested the edge on his thumb. Not hard enough to split skin, but enough to sting, just a little. “You could have offered a little warning that this was coming, you know. Considering how much time it’s sucking up.”

“This one did not anticipate it would become such a debacle,” said Bao Zhang, but there was a glimmer to his mouth that gave away the fib. “Or—well. This one expected resistance, but not _quite_ so much.”

“Considering you’ve proposed that a nomad and the governor of a border family lead a committee primarily directed towards uncovering crimes against individuals and groups across the entirety of the empire, you really ought to have expected this much of a snarling competition.” Ling sketched his fingers along the flat of the blade. With another emperor, he thought, it could be taken as a threat. There was a small point of pride that his minister didn’t look even the slightest bit fluttered that he was playing with an unsheathed blade during a reprimanding. _Without his people, a king is no king at all._ “We’re fairly certain that Minister Liu will propose the most inland-bound family he can think of for the third member of the committee, just to make things difficult.”

“This one believes he was going to suggest one of the Cao boys,” said Bao Zhang. “Not that they’re nearly practiced enough for a position of this magnitude, but unfortunately due to Lady Ma’s own relative inexperience, the gates have been opened to novices and incompetents.”

“Why the Cao?”

“The Cao have always been close with the Liu, and the elder Cao boy in particular has a grudge against Lady Ma for reasons this one has not yet been able to determine.” Bao Zhang mused for a moment. “She is not intimidated by his wealth or his social standing, and this one believes it bothers him. Not to mention her friendship with his fiancée. The Caos have never been particularly good at sharing.”

Ling had to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh. “No, that they haven’t, really.”

“It’s nice to see such honest irreverence in court again,” said Bao Zhang. “The Lady Ma brings a breath of fresh air to the palace.”

“Indeed,” said Ling, slowly. “The Lady Ma has made things—far more interesting as of late.”

“As you say, your eminence.” Zhang fiddled with one of his earrings. “Forgive the impertinence, eminence, but this one has not heard of your imperial highness taking the morning air with the Lady Ma, lately; may this one inquire as to whether or not the practice will resume at the winter palace?”

Ling stopped, and looked at him for a long time. “That,” he said, in his best _don’t you dare continue_ voice, “is an impertinent question indeed, Minister. We seem to recall reminding you to not be a matchmaker.”

“This one’s deepest, most humble apologies, Majesty,” said Zhang, and bowed. “This one spoke out of turn. This one begs for your forgiveness, your eminence, this one did not—”

“Oh, be quiet.” He was getting a headache, all of a sudden. “Don’t push where you shouldn’t, Minister. Say what you came here to say.”

Zhang bobbed his head back and forth like his blasted crow. “This one had a suggestion in regards for the final member of the committee—forgive this one, your eminence, for not speaking sooner, but would your eminence consider proposing Biyi Chang as a candidate?”

“Biyi Chang?” He had a vague, flickering memory of Biyi Chang, one of Mei’s distant cousins, round and fluttering and bookish. Ling turned his dao in his lap. “What would she bring to the Resolutionary Committee?”

“Perspective,” said Bao Zhang. “Much of the Chang family was destitute for generations until Her Highness Princess Chang returned from Amestris. This one believes Princess Chang herself would not accede to being a part of the committee—Her Highness is quite busy, this one is sure—but a member of the court who has greater knowledge and understanding of what the common folk go through would be an asset for a committee devoted to righting wrongs perpetuated against the lower classes.”

It was a good thing Minister Liu hadn’t been around to hear _that_ choice of phrasing. “Possibly,” said Ling. “Why not propose her yourself?”

“This one has already proposed Lady Ma, your eminence, and this one is afraid that Minister Liu, stalwart as he is, may not be…amenable to another suggestion from the Minister of the Right.”

“You’re probably right, there.” Ling pushed his thumb into the center of his palm, hidden behind his sleeve. “We will consider it.”

“A thousand thanks, your eminence,” said Bao Zhang, and bowed. “This one is forever—”

“Don’t be flowery, Zhang, we both know you can’t stand it.”

His lips twitched. “As your eminence proclaims.”

“You are dismissed,” said Ling, and Zhang backed out, still bowing at the waist. The door clicked shut. He was alone.

“Damn,” Ling said, and rubbed at his eyes. “Damn.”

*

“You’re sure.”

“Certain,” said Lan Fan, and mounted Changchang. On the ground at Changchang’s shoulder, Peizhi made a face.

“You’re _really_ sure, mistress.”

“Absolutely sure,” said Lan Fan. “You are not riding Changchang alongside the imperial revenue.”

“It’d keep her quiet.”

“It’s not happening.”

“But—”

“No.”

Peizhi scowled at her. The cast on his wrist was fresh as paint, replaced by a fussy Gao Bai when she’d wandered into the healer’s hall the day before leaving the capitol with a dirty, mule-headed Peizhi trailing at her heels. “She’d be _quiet_.”

“And yet it’s not happening,” said Lan Fan. If this is what motherhood was like, she truly wanted no part of it. “I’ve told you this every day since you signed on. I’m not letting you on this horse alongside imperials.”

“Still.”

“No, Peizhi.”

The scowl grew deeper. “Mistress—”

“Master Zhang is probably looking for you. He’ll need your help with the horses for when we get moving.”

“But—” Lan Fan fixed her eyes on him, and Peizhi wilted. His mouth was still curled in a stubborn knot, but he wilted, and dipped his head. “Yes, Mistress Ma.”

“Shoo,” said Lan Fan, and Peizhi shooed. Changchang shifted her head to watch him go, turned just enough to lock one liquid, hateful eye on Lan Fan on her back before blowing a long stream of air out her nose. “You hush,” said Lan Fan, and nudged the mare in the ribs. “He’ll be back.”

Changchang sighed again, and tried to kick a footman in the ribs as he passed.

She hadn’t intended to bring Peizhi back to the palace with her, but she hadn’t been able to avoid it, either. “I told you I’d pay you back,” said Peizhi, when Lan Fan had opened her mouth to argue. “Told you I would and I will. Xiaoqing’s talkin’ to the firebrands, but I’m no firestarter, and they won’t believe I wanna convert. I can help with Changchang.”

“Xiaoqing shouldn’t be looking into the firestarters alone,” said Lan Fan, but Xiaoqing shook her head. The veil pinned over her face was dark green, and fluttered when she sighed. Upstairs, behind the trapdoor, there was a baby crying.

“I won’t be alone,” she said. There was a little quiver to her voice that vanished as soon as Lan Fan looked hard enough. “Master Elric is remaining in the capitol for another two weeks; he’ll help, I think. Besides, if they’re after the Feng, then they may follow you sooner rather than later.”

For a moment, the only thing that had been in Lan Fan’s mind had been the letter Al had delivered, on behalf of Xiaoqing. _I’ll help you, gods forgive me for what may occur._ There had been a flicker of something on Xiaoqing’s face that looked too much like murder. Slowly, Lan Fan said, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m certain.” Xiaoqing blinked once. “These people killed my mother. I can handle them until you return.” She hesitated, looked to her father behind the bar. The baby was wailing fit to burst, upstairs. “And if they follow you, then I will follow them.”

“There you go, fusspots,” said Peizhi, and been cuffed around the ear for speaking out of turn.

That had been that. Lan Fan had spoken to Suyin, who had spoken to Jian Zhang, and Peizhi had been hired as a lesser groom by the Master of the Horse in the Imperial City. He’d also been forced into a delousing by Gao Bai (which had made him shriek) and into another healing (which had made him shriek again) and had been assigned specifically to keep an eye on Changchang, as none of the other grooms would go near her for fear of losing their fingers. She had the feeling even Jian Zhang had been shocked when Peizhi had ducked into Changchang’s stall without hesitating, and gone right to her head to pat her down. Lan Fan still wasn’t exactly sure what Peizhi had been doing with his qi, in that moment—it had…the only word for it was _rippled_ , the way stones made water ripple when they skipped over the surface of a lake—but it had clearly worked. Changchang had neither bitten nor kicked, and had in fact lowered her massive, deadly, viper head to push into Peizhi’s chest like a new foal. She was enough of a horsewoman to know that Peizhi’s presence was the only reason Changchang hadn’t tried to take a chunk out of another horse a good three days ago. 

As for Xiaoqing, there was nothing for any of them to do but wait. The day before they’d departed for Pubuchuan, Lan Fan had liberated a messenger hawk from the palace rookery and left it at the Autumn Moon Inn, alkahestrically mated with the hawk currently riding along in the Commander’s luggage and thus drawn together across any distance across the empire. A guaranteed way of getting a message between them, certainly, but time-consuming. She had Al at her back for now, and the Princess Chang—for Mei Chang was staying behind for another fortnight, as well—but once they left, Xiaoqing would be on her own.

The idea that she was leaving someone else in the same position she had been left in haunted her.

Alone, or possibly with her master and her grandfather, Lan Fan could have made the trip between the capitol city and the Pubuchuan Manor in Sheng-guo in a little over three days. With the imperial retinue, complete with any number of carts, the trip would take double that, depending on inclement weather and conditions at the base of the Shengyan Mountains. It was early enough in the season that it probably wouldn’t be snowing too heavily, but there were always freak storms, and it was critical that the Emperor not be caught in a blizzard on the way to the winter court. Shen Liu in particular seemed to be anxious about it, judging from how the Commander came back from nightly meetings in the Emperor’s tent grumbling about ministerial interference. “You’d think that he was the one being presented with a fleet of women at the full moon,” the commander had said. “Not the brat.”

_Choosing a bride._

“My lady Ma.”

It was Chang. Lan Fan dragged her head back down from the clouds, and cut him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Is something wrong?”

“Not in particular.” He hesitated. “Only you seem…disturbed.”

“I’m not.” Changchang’s ears went flat against her head, and Lan Fan pulled her out of range of Chang’s leggy gelding. “Shouldn’t you be with the commander getting your orders for the day?”

“I have a set of standing orders,” said Chang, placid as an ox. “As you well know, my lady.”

“Pox on your house,” said Lan Fan, who was suddenly in a very bad mood. Chang snorted.

“Of course, my lady.”

_I will choose my bride._

“I’m going to run her for a bit,” said Lan Fan, and kicked Changchang into a canter before he could reply. There was a surge of qi, and within a minute, Chang had caught up to follow her in silence.

There was no particular reason for her to be disturbed about the deadline for the Lotus Hall. After all, she knew—she knew in her bones, in her guts, in her heart—that the Emperor would keep his promise. The fighting between the Fifty Families would not continue. The sniping of wife against wife, family against family, the kind of infighting and cruelty that had led to Lien Hua’s mother being poisoned, her baby sister dying in the womb—it would end with the Dawn Emperor. That, Lan Fan knew to be true. It was simply frustrating that the machinations of the Empress and Minister Liu had pushed her master into making the decision so much earlier than he’d wanted to. What was the point of picking a bride when things were as dangerous, and as convoluted, and as complicated as they were?

 _Allies_ , her common sense told her. _Back-up, a better strategy_. But there wasn’t much a bride in the Lotus Hall could do against the Fires of God unless she brought several countries’ worth of soldiers with her. Or the ability to inspire the poor to change religions to something less apocalyptic and havoc-inducing, which was unlikely. Devoting time and energy to the weighing and consideration of a fleet of noblewomen was not only foolhardy, but reckless, and she hated the taste it left in her mouth, like mud and oil. She wasn’t angry at the Emperor; she simply wished that this had come about at a different time.

If she made herself think about it, methodically, then she knew that Feiyan Ma was already a part of the competition. The Emperor had been courting her pseudonym, and inviting more women to the court to ply their suit meant that those same women would probably view her as a threat. She would be drawn into the game whether she liked it or not, and it would keep eyes on her, give the Feng a vested interest in continuing to interact with her even if Lien Hua hadn’t pulled her into their secrets, into Lang and Huian Yao and firebrands and assassination in the dead of night. It would be a waste of time, and energy, but she was a part of it whether she liked it or not, and as sick as it made her—quivery, unsettled, guilty to the tips of her toes—she had to follow it through. _Whatever I am after all this is over, whatever I become, I will not have shamed my training._ She was the Emperor’s tool, to be used as necessary, and if that meant accepting a lotus at Pubuchuan, then she would. No matter how it made her feel.

For a moment, when she knotted her flesh hand around the reins, she could feel silk and warmth against her palm.

Considering nobles were trained to go hunting in all sorts of terrain, sustained travel took them much longer than necessary. The Emperor set a good pace, but that was undercut by how frequently the other nobles wanted to stop and rest, and it was making her tongue itch. Today was no different. The cavalcade stopped at noon so everyone could eat, and Lan Fan urged Changchang beyond the head of the line, up to the top of the hill where she could look back at the capitol. It was far in the distance, now, a blur of smoke on the horizon, barely a smudge. The imperial caravan was half a mile long, seven families plus the Emperor, the Empress Dowager, their respective retainers, and the staff necessary to move such a large group of people across a full country to Sheng-guo. Any time the Emperor moved out of the capitol city was a risk, and she’d loosened her grip on her qi just enough to feel the ripples of the caravan all the way to the back end of it, all the people, all the animals, every part of it. So far no one had noticed her presence, and it eased her worry about cloaked bandits. Not by an enormous amount—that wouldn’t happen until they were locked safe in Pubuchuan—but enough.

Lan Fan locked her qi back down, and kicked Changchang into a loping canter, back to Suyin’s palanquin and the Commander’s massive bay mare, staked to earth and lipping at grass without a care in the world. “Take a leaf from her book,” Lan Fan said to Changchang as she dismounted. “Stop biting, for spirits’ sake.”

Changchang sank her teeth into the sleeve of Lan Fan’s deel. It was gentle, by her standards. Barely left a dent in the fabric. Lan Fan bared her teeth right back at her, and tugged on Changchang’s forelock until she let go.

“I see her manners haven’t improved at all,” said a voice, and Lan Fan cursed herself, cursed her bared teeth and her bad temper and the horse trying to snap at her, because on the other side of Suyin’s palanquin was the Emperor, flanked by the Commander on one side, and Bao Zhang on the other. He was out of expensive robes, for once, dressed very un-imperially in a black magua and trousers, and memory lurched sick into her mouth. He’d been wearing something similar, the day she’d been shot. When she’d woken and thought him injured, blood streaked all down his front. _Take a breath, Lan Fan._ “Is it safe to approach?”

“I do not believe so, eminence.” Lan Fan pulled her sleeve out of Changchang’s reach, and tapped her nose when she went to bite again. “She’s not in the best mood. Traveling alongside the retinue is making her—difficult.”

“I see.” The Emperor cut a look to Bao Zhang. “Minister, I believe you said you have a headache; you ought to be resting.”

“This one does, indeed, eminence,” said Bao Zhang lightly. “This one will take his leave, if it please you.”

“Feel better, Minister,” said the Emperor, and Bao Zhang bowed deep at the waist before traipsing away. When he whistled, a dark speck arced out of the clouds to settle on his shoulder, man and raven vanishing down the line towards the ministerial palanquins. The Commander looked like he was biting his tongue. “Not that I blame him for having a headache, after the past few days.”

“No, eminence,” said Lan Fan. “I wish him a speedy recovery.”

“As do I, though maybe not as speedy as it could be. I’m sick of hearing cyclical arguments within my cabinet.” He folded his hands together, and began to tap with his index finger. What on earth he was nervous about, she couldn’t imagine. Lan Fan stole a look at his face—court smooth, as always—and went back to fussing with Changchang. “I thought I had assigned you a guard, Lady Ma.”

“I’m afraid I outran him,” said Lan Fan, and the Emperor threw his head back and laughed.

“Pay up, Shan, I told you it wouldn’t take more than a few days on the road.”

“This one has no money on him at present, majesty,” said Shan. His eyes twinkled. “If your eminence would accept an IOU—”

“You’re a filthy liar. I should have you executed.” The Emperor caught her eye, and winked, and Lan Fan faced Changchang’s shoulder rather than let herself blush. “There you are, Guardsman, I was wondering where she’d lost you.”

“This one apologizes,” said Chang, out of breath. His gelding was gusting, highly displeased. “This one underestimated how fast a Xuanwu racehorse could go when properly motivated, eminence.”

“Or how fast a Ma lady could vanish from beneath your nose if you aren’t careful, especially on open ground.” The Emperor lifted a brow. “Which is not to say that you require supervision, Lady Ma, only that if you decide to escape someone on horseback most people would have a difficult time catching up.”

Her throat locked up. Lan Fan shrugged.

“Give your gelding a rest, guardsman,” said the Emperor. “If the lady would deign to walk with me for a moment, I had reason to speak with her. The Commander will accompany us, won’t you, Shan?”

“If your eminence wishes,” said Shan, ignoring Lan Fan’s wild eyes. The Emperor pasted on a court smile.

“His Eminence wishes.”

“Well, then,” said Shan. “Cousin?”

“My horse,” said Lan Fan, but the Emperor waved that off.

“We’ll wait for you to get her settled.”

Her tongue went tacky in her mouth, though there was no good reason for her to be nervous. Just because the whole caravan would notice her walking with the Emperor, even if it were only for a minute or two, that was no reason to be nervous. It wasn’t as though people weren’t already whispering about why she had been invited to Pubuchuan. “Of course, eminence. I won’t be long.”

“Take your time, Lady Ma” he said, and crinkled his eyes at her. “She seems like a handful.”  

If she hunted for it, there would be a metaphor in that. The Emperor was fond of metaphors. They had always given her headaches. Lan Fan collected Changchang’s reins, and went to find a safe place to tie her up.

The Emperor was still waiting when she came back. Patiently, though she of all people knew how patient he could be when he wished. A few palanquins down, she could see Mingli Chen peeping out from beyond the curtains, and vanishing just as quickly. “Shall we?” said the Emperor, and offered his arm. Lan Fan had to bite down hard on the tip of her tongue to force herself to take it. The fabric of his magua was much finer and thinner than his court silks, and she could feel the shift of his arm as he bent his elbow, the play of muscle beneath the skin. Deeply improper. Her ears felt hot. _Deeply_ improper, and perhaps not as public as walking into a Gathering meeting with her on his elbow, but still public nonetheless.

“Mm,” said Lan Fan, because she had no other words left in her. The Emperor squeezed her fingers with his free hand, and dropped it away again.

“This way to avoid prying ears.”

The caravan had stopped for lunch in the hollow of a hill. It wasn’t a particularly steep hill, but the rains in and around the capitol had changed the dirt to slick, slippery mud, and that meant focus and quiet as they forged their way up to the top, stopping by an oak tree. The leaves were a cacophony of yellows and reds, oranges and golds, and when the Emperor let her slide out of his arm, Lan Fan reached up to pull a leaf from a branch, spinning it between her metal fingers. It was easier to focus on the leaf, rather than the Emperor. Shan had subsided into careful silence, just out of earshot, sunlight glinting off the helmet tucked under his arm.

The Emperor peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, still smiling. “You’ve been busy.”

“Apologies, your eminence.” She peeled a strip off the leaf. “My schedule keeps getting worse and worse the longer I’m here. For reasons I’m not particularly sure of.”

“Minister Zhang tells me it’s because you’re reactionary.”

“I’m not certain if that’s the right word.” Something was off about her temper, her stance. She felt like a duck, waddling and uncertain on land. _When did horseback become the only place I feel stable anymore?_ “I’m not meant for politics, your eminence. I only want to help.”

“You’ve chosen the right committee for that, I think.” He pinched his lower lip. “I have to admit, I didn’t think introducing you into the meeting with First Governor Song would result in this, but I’m…pleased to see it. Your honesty has always been of value to me, it’s time other people learn to see it for what it is.”

There was a surge of something up her throat that could have been joy, or panic, or agony. She wanted to be on the committee, she’d _wanted_ to try and make something of herself, just like Suyin had suggested, but faced with the Emperor’s approval, it all seemed fragile. Like blown sunlight. “I’m—” she began, and then she stopped. “I am glad to hear you approve, eminence.”

The Emperor didn’t look at her, not immediately. It was only after she’d shredded her first leaf, and plucked another, that she felt his eyes settle on the back of her neck. “My lady Ma, are you well?”

“Fine,” she said. It was eggshell brittle on her tongue. _I need people to stop asking me that._ “I am quite well, eminence, simply tired.”

“Of horseback?”

“Of waiting,” she said. “I’ve never been very good at waiting.”

“I can believe that,” said the Emperor, and a smile bubbled in her throat. Lan Fan ducked her head to hide it. “I wanted to speak to you about why I invited you to Pubuchuan, Lady Ma.”

“For the committee, I assumed,” she said. “And for my—connections.”

“Well, yes.” He’d gone back to tapping his forefinger against his opposite hand. _Nervous,_ and it was rare that the Emperor was nervous anymore, not this way, not ducking his head like a schoolboy and refusing to look at her when he was always trying to get her to look at him, to flout tradition, to spit in its eye. Lan Fan stopped tearing up leaves. Whatever was coming, she wanted to meet it head on. “I’m certain that my mother has made clear to you the—issues presented by any attention I pay to you.”

 _You get your hooks out of my son,_ the Empress had said, blood on her nails from the gouges on Lan Fan’s cheek, her fangs bared. _You get your hooks out of my son, or I will rip you apart._

“In a way,” said Lan Fan.

The Emperor muttered something under his breath. He was _fidgeting_ ; she hadn’t seen him fidget since Amestris, not like this. “It is expected that I will request you to make a bid for the Lotus Hall,” he said, not fast, not slow, but measured. As if he’d practiced it. “I wished to tell you that—that if you did not wish to make such a bid, there would be no harm done. To anyone. Or anything.”

 _Anything_ being their plans, more than likely. There was a curious rushing in her ears. Lan Fan plucked another leaf, and stripped it methodically, until only a skeleton remained. She had to hold it with her metal fingers; they were dexterous enough to do the work, certainly, but she preferred the feel of the leaf caving under her fingernails, the smear of it on her skin. It showed too much of her thoughts, too much of her turmoil, but she couldn’t stop without screaming. She did not look at the Emperor again. “Oh.”

“It is a risk, to bring it up to you like this, but I decided the risk was necessary.” He’d set his jaw, now, settled his face. Determined and waiting. “If you wish, I will not request it. We can continue as we have done until now, and no harm will be done. Though there may be—questions in regards to your reputation.”

“There have always been questions in regards to my reputation,” said Lan Fan. Her teeth felt hollow “I doubt it would change particularly much.”

“As you say.”

Silence fell. Not the trembling, blazing silence of the hallway in front of Bao Zhang’s rooms, not the silent scuff of his fingers down her automail, over her cheek, but—stilted. Awkward. Lan Fan stripped a fourth leaf, and a fifth, before deciding it made her look weak, and forcing her hands into a knot behind her back. She realized too late that it was the position adopted by Shadows at their charge’s shoulder, because Master Ling’s—the Emperor’s face went all pinched and unhappy, flickering and raw for an unguarded moment. Then it was gone.

 _I missed you because I trust you, Lady Ma,_ he’d said. And she’d replied: _I missed you, too._ She still missed him. She missed this. Lan Fan bit down on the inside of her cheek.

“I am not worthy of such an honor,” she said, and looked at the ground. “I—I would not want to malign the reputation of your eminence in any way.”

“You wouldn’t,” said the Emperor. “I have faith that you would not.”

She opened her mouth, and stopped herself. _You are still his servant,_ she thought. She was discovering who she could become, who she could be outside of what she had been made to be, but that had never changed. _You will protect him however you can. It is your purpose. It is your duty._ Her oath of loyalty had never been in question, not through any of her identities. “If you would prefer that I make the attempt, I will do so, though I truly am not…worthy of that.” It was a natural step, for Feiyan Ma, but it sat heavy and oily in her belly. “It is not as though I will win the bid. And if it would make certain things…easier, then so be it.”

Something flickered at the corners of his eyes. An emotion she couldn’t catch, fleeting and frightening. The Emperor crossed his arms, and hid his hands. “As you say,” he said, and it sounded remarkably like resignation. “I will make the formal request for a lotus to be placed in your rooms at Pubuchuan, Lady Ma.”

Her heart was beating curiously slow, and distant, as if through a canyon. “Yes, your eminence.”

She turned, and he was there. Much closer than he had been, and he’d muffled his qi again, she realized very suddenly, he shouldn’t have been able to do that without her noticing, but with her shields up it was very difficult to tell things like that, especially when she was distracted. The Emperor looked at her for a long time, then, like he was searching for something. Then he set his thumb to his lips, and dabbed it over her cheek. It left a burning smear on her skin, like acid, or fire. The touch of a blade. “Dirt,” he said, very low. “Probably from your problem child.”

Lan Fan blinked. Her lips parted without her permission. “Problem child?” she said, and her voice was husky, and when had that happened? _Disrespectful, discourteous, deeply, deeply improper, get a hold of yourself, Lan Fan,_ but she couldn’t quite manage it. “Peizhi?”

“No,” said the Emperor, and his mouth curved. “Your horse.”

“Oh,” said Lan Fan again.

“Who is Peizhi?” said the Emperor, lightly. There was a coiling in the back of his eyes, though, that she didn’t recognize. _When did I stop recognizing things about him?_ “Someone I ought to be jealous of?”

Lan Fan turned beet red. Her cheeks stung. “Peizhi is—is the boy from the Sevens Race, majesty.”

“Ah. You never named him before.”

She couldn’t remember if that were true or not. She couldn’t remember a great many things, at the moment. Lan Fan swallowed, and wiped the juice of the oak leaf off on the leg of her trousers. “He is—good. Irascible, and untrusting, much like the mare. But he’s good.”

“That sounds like a story,” said the Emperor, and they were on steady ground again. Lan Fan still hesitated when he offered his arm, still tried hard not to touch him otherwise, tried not to be hyperaware of the warmth of him and how the bone of his hip knocked into hers as they made their way back down the hill, but she took it, and the wavering notion of the world shaking under her feet had abated. For now, anyway.

 _I miss you,_ she thought, and listened to his voice, not the words. _I miss you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still going through and making spot edits, but! There 'tis.
> 
> On another note, if you draw something for SotB, PLEASE drop me a line in my Tumblr inbox! I'm not that on top of checking the tag too often, and I like to know when they happen so I can go look at them. :3 There are some absolutely gorgeous pieces out there and I want to love on them as much as possible.


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